


Awakenings

by Luthien



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance, Tea, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger arrives in town, but luckily Mr Gold has everything under control.</p><p>A slight AU on the first season, with one significant twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/gifts).



> This story is for Nym, because it's all her fault. *g*

Mr Gold turned off the lights, leaving his shop in darkness. He closed the door behind him, pausing briefly to press a hand back against it to make sure that the lock was securely in place — it didn't pay to be careless, and Gold had no interest in anything that didn't pay — and stepped out onto the street.

It was a Thursday evening, much like any other Thursday evening in Storybrooke save that it was the last of the month, which made it that little bit special, at least for Gold. There was the slightest spring in his step, and he leant a little less heavily than usual on his cane, as he turned the corner and made his way along the next street to Granny's Bed and Breakfast.

"Now, what's the name?" Granny Lucas was saying to the person standing at the counter as Gold entered.

"Swan, Emma Swan," the stranger replied. She was facing Mrs Lucas, her features not visible from where Gold stood in the doorway. She was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, he noted, and a veritable mane of long blonde hair fell down her back.

Gold blinked, feeling the shock of recognition, or something very like it. "Emma! What a lovely name," he said, and the woman turned around.

She was pretty enough, Gold supposed, if you liked strong features and all that so very blonde hair, but her face had a hardness to it that spoke of too many less than pleasant experiences, and there was a wary light in her eyes. She wasn't quite so young as Gold had expected, either. He wasn't sure why he'd expected anything, though. Emma Swan was, after all, that most unexpected of all eventualities in Storybrooke: someone new.

"Thanks," she said, eyeing Gold curiously.

He smiled his usual polite smile, a bare quirk of the lips.

Emma Swan didn't smile in return. She turned back to Mrs Lucas, though the old woman only had eyes for Gold himself for the moment.

"It's all here," she said tersely, holding out a roll of banknotes.

"Yes, of course it is, dear. Thank you." Gold took the month's rent from her, but his eyes never left Emma Swan. Something about her drew him, though he was damned if he could work out quite what it was. There was something familiar about her, something that spoke to him of other times, other places, though he was certain he'd never laid eyes on her in his life.

"You enjoy your stay. Emma," Gold said, uttering her name with a deliberation that made it sound almost like a curse word.

She raised her eyebrows, briefly, but she didn't look away again. This time it was Gold's turn to do that. He left without another word, or another look at Emma Swan. He did save one look especially for the granddaughter, waiting by the door — another of his unsettling not-quite-smiles that usually worked without fail. This one worked well enough. The girl just stood there in awe, or something quiet enough to pass for it, as he opened the door, and then he was back outside.

It was a cool night, though not cold, but Gold pulled his jacket closer against the wind as he went to collect his car. He made the rounds of his tenants, or at least of those special few he made a point of collecting from in person rather than sending his agent, but for once his attention wasn't on the task at hand. He didn't even stay long at the convent. The Mother Superior noted his distraction, he realised, when he bade her good night and she raised her brows in surprise — which only served to remind him of Emma Swan. Not that he needed reminding.

Emma. It wasn't really so lovely a name, old-fashioned and simple, just two short syllables. It should have been unremarkable, but there was something about it that just wouldn't let him go, something even more familiar than the woman herself. It nagged at him, just out of reach like an almost-remembered word on the tip of his tongue.

It was close to ten o'clock when at last he drew up outside his house. This part of the street was dimly lit, the street lights being few and far between no thanks to City Hall, and he found his way from the car to the front gate more by memory than sight. As usual, the street was deserted at this time of night. No one else -

He stiffened. The street _wasn't_ deserted. He wasn't imagining things; that was the sound of footsteps he could hear, he was sure of it, and they were gaining on him fast. He whirled around, as well as he was able with only one good leg — which was to say, rather clumsily. He clutched the handle of his cane tightly — too tightly — only just managing to keep his balance, and all too well aware that he'd be too slow to use it as an effective weapon if the potential assailant decided to strike.

The dark figure came to a stop before reaching him. Hooded, Gold noted, with face in shadow but, also, slight of stature - shorter than himself, in fact. The odds were fast improving.

"Mr Gold?" Gold started. It was a woman's voice. He felt that he shouldn't have been surprised, and yet he was. This voice was even more unfamiliarly familiar than Emma Swan's, and this time he didn't need to be told her name. There was only one woman in town with that particular accent.

"Yes, I'm Mr Gold," he said smoothly, and waited.

"Do… do you remember me?" she asked, the words coming out in a rush.

"It's Miss French, isn't it?" he asked, feigning uncertainty, as though he didn't know exactly who she was. Gold knew every single person in Storybrooke, at least by sight if not to talk to. He made it his business to know.

She pushed back the hood, though that revealed very little of her features in the near-darkness.

"I, um," she said, and paused. "I mean yes, I'm… Miss French."

Gold's eyes narrowed. Why would anyone hesitate to say their own name? Unless that person was in two minds about revealing her identity, which in turn immediately begged another question. "Is there something I can do for you, Miss French? Or is this perhaps just a chance meeting?" he asked, though he was already sure of the right answer, regardless of her reply.

"I, um," she said again, and paused again. "I was hoping to catch you. I particularly wanted to speak with you."

"Really," Gold said, letting a little doubt creep into his voice. He barely knew the woman, though he was sure that she knew him all too well, at least by reputation.

"Yes, _really_ ," she said, all hesitation gone. She sounded exasperated now. "Why do y-" She stopped herself abruptly, halfway through the sentence — halfway through a word, to be precise.

"Why do I… what, exactly?" Gold asked, keeping his own voice smooth and deceptively calm.

"I'm sorry," Miss French said. "This isn't going how I intended it to."

"So I perceive," Gold said. "Please continue," he said, with an accompanying flourish of his hand. "I am, as they say, agog."

"Thank you," she said, and he could feel the sudden warmth in her, knew without a doubt that she was smiling, and trying not to, knew just what that looked like, lips curving in spite of herself, dark lashes sweeping down against her cheek for an instant, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners, blue eyes-

"I wanted to ask you something. I wanted to offer you a deal," she said quickly.

"Ah, of course," he said. Gold enjoyed being right, and that enjoyment did not diminish with the fact that he almost always _was_ right when it came to other people's motivations, so it made no sense to feel a pang of disappointment at hearing Miss French say exactly what he'd expected her to say. It made no sense at all. He let out a long breath before opening his mouth to speak again. Now came the moment when he would point out to her that any deal required two participants, each desiring something of the other, something of value, and that he doubted very much that there was anything in her power to offer of which he stood in want.

But, "What kind of deal did you have in mind, Miss French?" was what he asked when at last he spoke, and wondered where the words came from even as he said them.

"I wanted… I'm in need of some… assistance." She sounded hesitant again. "In return, I'm willing to offer you, I mean I _can_ offer you-"

"Don't!" he cut in sharply. And then, in something approaching a quieter, calmer tone of voice, he added, "Come to my shop in the morning, and we'll discuss things properly."

"Thank you," she said, and Gold was sure that she was smiling again. "If you're sure…?"

"Oh, I'm very sure. For one thing, if I'm making a deal, I want to be able to see the face of the person with whom I'm making that deal," he pointed out.

"I'd… like that, too," Miss French said.

Her slight hesitation sounded different this time. Not unsure, but more… something else. Something that sounded almost flirtatious. Gold didn't often find himself on the receiving end of that sort of thing, but it wasn't completely unheard of. He wondered what it was that she really wanted from him.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said curtly.

"Until tomorrow," she echoed, as he turned away and walked the short distance to his front gate. "Good night," she called after him.

He paused in the act of opening the gate. "Good night, Miss French," he replied, and waited until he heard the sound of her retreating footsteps. If he then turned back from the gate and watched as she walked slowly back in the direction from which she'd come, all the way down the street until the light from the street lamp caught her face for an instant as she turned the corner, well, there was no one there to see.

He opened the gate at last and made his way along the path and up the front steps to his door. Inside, all was dark, and still and quiet; just what he preferred to come home to at the end of a long day. His fingers found the switch by the door and flooded the hallway with cold white light. He was struck by how empty the hallway seemed, despite the fact that it was very definitely not empty, so much so that some might even call it cluttered. The overhead light was painfully bright after the lack of lighting out on the street. Gold moved on quickly through the house, pausing here and there to turn on a lamp to light his way. His eyes were better accustomed to the light when at last he reached the kitchen.

It was his custom to take a late supper on rent nights, but tonight he wasn't at all hungry. Ignoring the refrigerator, he filled the kettle and set it to the boil. From the cupboard above, he took down a small teapot of white porcelain, plain and unadorned apart from the fine line of gilding around the rims and handle. He paused before selecting a tea from the array of canisters in the next cupboard along. His favourite superfine Darjeeling beckoned him, but in the end it was the rarely touched Chinese green Dragonwell tea that he measured carefully into the teapot. Three spoonfuls: one for each cup, and another for the pot, as his… as someone used to say to him. Gold frowned. He couldn't remember who had said that. Someone he'd known, and known well once upon a time, he was sure.

He was still frowning down at the teapot when the kettle started to whistle. Gold shook his head, rousing himself from pointless reverie, and went to turn off the stove. He removed the lid from the kettle, letting the steam spill free. The water would need to cool a little before it went anywhere near green tea leaves. He sat down at the kitchen table, and reached into his pocket for the evening's takings. Fortunately, he had deep pockets.

He laid the bills out carefully before him, counting as he went, though there was no real need. Even if he hadn't cast a careful eye over each payment as he received it, it wasn't as though any of his tenants would dare try to cheat him. Not if they enjoyed having a roof over their head and wished to continue to do so.

The roll of bills from Mrs Lucas was the last to be retrieved from his pocket. Gold ran a finger along the stiff curve of paper, and remembered too much blonde hair. She hadn't been afraid of him. Wary, but unafraid. For the moment.

He set the bills down with the rest, still rolled up tightly, rose from his seat, and went over to add water to the pot. While the tea steeped, he opened the end cupboard and took out a cup and saucer that matched the pot. Gold held the cup up to the light, casting a critical eye over it. It was very fine porcelain, suffused with a glowing translucence with the light behind it like this, but of course he would use nothing less. Tea always tasted better when drunk from a proper cup and saucer.

He frowned at the cup. He'd been using this same tea set for years, but there was something about this cup that somehow wasn't quite right now he came to look at it closely. There were no chips or cracks or blemishes to be seen. It looked just as it always had, and yet it definitely wasn't right. The white porcelain was too bare of decoration, the shape of the cup too perfectly simple. It was altogether too… lacking.

He set the cup back in its saucer, and, together with the teapot, brought it back to the table with him. He poured the tea, took a sip, made a face — somehow, green teas always disappointed the senses slightly — and set about finishing counting out the rent money, sipping absently at his tea as he went. A short time later, the money had been sorted and carefully packed up again, and the teacup sat empty at Gold's elbow.

It took only a moment to rinse out the cup and saucer, to pour the remaining tea down the sink and empty out the used tea leaves, and then to rinse out the teapot in turn. He put the tea things away, and shut the cupboard doors firmly behind them.

Gold took the evening's takings through to the room that he liked to call his library. Possibly the term was a trifle ostentatious for any house much smaller than a castle, but it described the room's function accurately enough. It was a room devoted to books, and very little else. Indeed, there was room for very little else. The room was lined with bookcases, from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, and every last inch of shelf space was crammed to overflowing with books. There were books on the desk beneath the window, too, and on the chair, and even in piles on the floor. Any stranger chancing to come into the room in search of anything other than a book would not waste much time here. Gold smiled briefly: the room more than served its purpose. He took the set of library steps from where they were stowed in the corner and placed them in front of the shelf just to the left of the door. He mounted only the first two steps, not an impossible task even for a man who relied upon a cane to get around, and then he reached up and felt along the third shelf from the top until his fingers found the notch in the wood. He pressed it.

With a quiet click, the adjoining bookshelf swung open on concealed hinges, revealing the wall safe that lay behind it. Gold lowered himself carefully back to the floor, and quickly entered the combination to the safe. He pulled open the safe door and took in the contents at a glance. Everything was just as he'd left it: the quantity of spare cash that he always kept close to hand 'just in case', the papers — legal, and some rather less than legal — that were best kept far from prying eyes, and a few other bits and pieces that he chose to keep safely locked up.

Gold stared at those last items. They consisted of jewellery, mostly. Not all of the pieces were expensive: a simple silver locket sat side by side with a platinum ring set with a peridot that sparkled as it caught the light. There were some other things here, too, including a collection of letters detailing thoughts of an extremely personal nature that their authors no doubt now regretted committing to paper. Quite regardless of their monetary worth, the one quality that all of the items had in common was their value. They were valuable to the people who would like — he would even go so far as to use the word 'desperate' — to get those items back, which in turn made them valuable to him.

Something was missing. The contents of the safe were untouched, everything was just as he'd left it, and yet something was missing - something that was never there in the first place, but should have been. And he didn't even know what it was.

Gold shook his head irritably, and placed the rent money with the rest. It wasn't like him to indulge in such fanciful thoughts. He wasn't so lacking in self-awareness that he couldn't admit to himself the likely cause of his current odd mood, though. He'd been feeling ever so slightly off-balance since the moment he'd walked into Granny's this evening and seen the stranger standing there. Since the moment he'd heard her name.

What did she want here, this Emma Swan? Storybrooke wasn't the sort of place that people chose to visit. Ever. And yet, here she was, looking like nothing Storybrooke had ever seen, with her skin tight jeans and leather boots and jacket, and hard, wary stare. Oh, and the long blonde hair. Gold gave her a week, at most, before she disappeared back to wherever she came from. Less than that, if she was unfortunate enough to catch the mayor's attention. And, of course, she would.

If Gold made it his business to know the identity of everyone in town, Regina made it her business to know everything of importance that went on in Storybrooke. She didn't succeed at that goal, not in everything, and not least in relation to the activities of Gold himself, but he didn't think less of her for that. He did think less of her for not realising that that was the case.

She wouldn't fail to notice the arrival of the stranger, and that suited Gold just fine. The more of the mayor's attention that was focused on Emma Swan, the less of it would be devoted to things happening elsewhere.

Gold was smirking, just a little, as he closed the library door behind him and made his way around the ground floor, turning out the various lights he'd turned on earlier. That last small task completed, he paused only when he reached the small, marble-topped table by the foot of the stairs, and the telephone that sat, as always, on top of it. He picked up the receiver, dialled a number that he had no need to look up, and waited. His call was answered on the second ring.

"Emma Swan," he said, without bothering to identify himself or to apologise for the lateness of the hour. "Find out everything you can about her, and keep an eye on her from now on. And get back to me with what you've found by this time tomorrow." He rang off without another word. Gold knew that such measures weren't really enough, that they were almost certainly too little and too late, but for now they would have to do. He didn't like being caught on the back foot, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that that was exactly what had happened the moment Emma Swan arrived in town.

The climb up the stairs seemed particularly long and slow tonight. His leg ached from the effort by the time he made it to the door of his bedroom. He undressed in his usual methodical manner, first shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging it carefully in the wardrobe before sitting down on the side of the bed to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. Shoes and socks followed, and belt and trousers, all stowed neatly away in the wardrobe, or tossed into the clothes hamper along with his boxers. A place for everything, and everything in its place: that was one of the maxims he lived by, even if the state of his house would seem to put the lie to that, at least to the eye of the casual observer. But then, the eye of a casual observer was invariably the eye of a fool. The key to almost anything was not just to look, but to see.

Naked, he limped across the hallway to the bathroom and into the shower cubicle. He turned on the water and leaned against the wall, taking some of the weight off his bad leg. He let out a sigh.

After a long moment, he took the soap from the holder. He had a varied array of expensive and subtly perfumed bathroom products in the cupboard above the sink, replenished by the cleaning girl each month or so, but he rarely used anything in the shower save a cake of plain, unscented soap. He rubbed it along his arms and torso now, working up a brisk lather across his chest. And then his hands moved lower.

Gold let his head fall back against the wall. The spray was hot against his face as the ceiling fan whirred overhead, and he took himself in hand. Gold prided himself on his control of… well, of everything, really, and his self-control perhaps most of all. He was rarely troubled by passion of any sort. But the evening's surprises had left him unusually on edge; it was no real surprise to find that he was already half-hard. Besides, a slight and involuntary physical response was in itself hardly symptomatic of passion. He let his hand slide along the length of his cock, his hold just tight enough to make his breath catch as he palmed the head. A physical release would be the best way to rid himself of that troublesome tension, to regain the balance that had been missing all evening. Really, it was the most cool-headed and logical course of action, in the circumstances. It was the _controlled_ thing to do.

His hand slipped back and forth against his cock, stroking, stroking. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation and not letting himself think of anything else. Just the wet and heat of the water beating against his skin and the slippery pressure of his hand, nice and slow, finding the rhythm, easing himself into it gradually. Hot and wet, soft skin slippery against him, pale skin, flushed with heat and pleasure both, the sound of a soft, low laugh and then the feel of lips against his shoulder, trailing along his neck, finding his mouth and… Countless sensations, and countless images, hitting him all at once, but not in a senseless blur. He could make out every one of them distinctly, like memories of something precious and so long lost that he'd forgotten it ever existed. All different, yet all the same. All featuring a beautiful, perfect, achingly familiar face, one that he saw properly for just an instant tonight, illuminated for a fleeting moment beneath a distant street light, lips curved in a smile and those eyes looking back at him, blue eyes-

He let out a gasp so deep that it was almost a groan, and then he was gasping and shaking and coming, pulsing against his hand, helplessly in the thrall of it. In the thrall of her, the woman he'd rarely seen and barely exchanged two words with before tonight.

When it was over, he slumped back fully against the wall in shock, wondering what the hell had just happened. It was only a very slight relief to know that, whatever else was going on here, at least he could be certain that he still didn't care for blonde hair.


	2. Chapter 2

Gold did not sleep well on Thursday night. He barely slept at all. He tossed and turned all night, his mind burning with questions to which he desperately wanted answers even though he had no idea quite how to put those questions into words.

It wasn't just his mind that burned, and not with questions either.

He gave up on sleep a little after dawn, rising with the birds that had started chirping incessantly outside his window. He put on his dressing-gown, a heavy chocolate brown silk brocade shot with gold, and took himself downstairs.

He prepared his usual breakfast of tea and toast, making sure to choose the Darjeeling when he made the tea this time, and adding just a splash of milk to the strong, black brew. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring the first sip and… He opened his eyes again and, frowning, put down the teacup. There was no denying that the Darjeeling was a definite improvement on the insipid green Dragonwell he'd unaccountably made for himself last night, but, even so, it still wasn't quite right. Somehow, it just wasn't to his taste this morning.

The toast was even less to his liking. After one bite, he put the piece of toast back down on his plate and stared at it in suspicion. It was spread with a thin smear of Marmite, just as he liked it — and yet, he didn't like it. Not at all. Perhaps the Marmite had gone off, though that didn't seem likely. He was fairly sure that it was _impossible_ for Marmite to go off. Besides, the Marmite didn't taste noticeably different than it always had. It was just that this morning he didn't like it.

He threw the toast in the bin, and unfolded the morning newspaper — and there was Emma Swan, staring back at him from the middle of the front page. Well, well, well. The mayor had clearly wasted no time in going after her. He wondered what had prompted Regina to such swift action. The newspaper article proved to be singularly unenlightening on this point, and about almost anything else to do with Miss Swan apart from a storm in a teacup about a minor car accident. The lack of information didn't matter greatly to Gold, of course. He had much more reliable sources on the case already.

He browsed through the rest of the paper, defiantly sipping from his teacup as he went until he reached the sports pages — which he never read — and the cup was drained to the last drop. Rising from the table, he cleared away the breakfast things, pouring the remaining tea in the pot down the sink before washing up.

Gold was back upstairs and dressed while it was still early. It was quite a bit earlier than the time he usually left home in the morning, in fact. He considered his appearance in the bedroom mirror: black shirt, silver grey silk tie, charcoal grey pinstripe suit, and just the merest hint of brighter colour provided by the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. All in all, he looked exactly as he always looked, exactly as Mr Gold _should_ look.

He moved over to the window, and looked out along the street. It was a typically grey New England morning, but at least it wasn't raining. Yet.

Gold decided to live dangerously and walk to the shop today.

He paused on his way out the gate, and cast a quick glance at the street light up on the corner. It looked so ordinary in daylight. Deliberately averting his eyes from it, he closed the gate behind him and set off down the street.

The journey was uneventful almost the entire way. He walked unhindered by anything save his limp. Nobody stopped to engage him in conversation; indeed, some of his fellow pedestrians rather unsubtly crossed to the other side of the road when they saw him coming. Children on their way to school ran as he approached, but whether in fear, he could not say. Maybe some of them did. Maybe some of them were braver than that. Stupidly brave.

His leg was aching by the time he reached the centre of town. He needed to sit and rest it.

He did not pause, or so much as slow down.

He nodded to Dr Hopper in passing as he crossed the road. The other man's rather strained smile suggested that perhaps there was a less than welcoming expression on Gold's face this morning — but really, what was new about that?

His foot slipped slightly on some loose gravel as he reached the kerb, and Gold stumbled. He let out a low curse as he lost his balance, leaning heavily on his cane, but he did not fall. Not quite. As he took a deep, annoyed breath and straightened up, his eyes lighted on the clock tower. Gold frowned. The clock had not worked for longer than anyone could remember, hands frozen at a quarter past eight for years beyond count. And yet there it was, the minute hand at a couple of minutes before the hour, clearly showing the correct time.

There was a story there. Gold made a mental note to find out just who had set the clock going again, and why, and then he went on his way.

It was almost exactly eight o'clock when he turned the corner into Main Street. His breath caught as he saw the figure waiting by the door to his shop. She was wearing jeans and her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her appearance was hardly unusual for a young woman her age, and yet there was something disconcerting about it, or maybe just about her. She looked more casual than he'd expected, though he couldn't say why. People came to him in every state imaginable, though if they had time to think about it first they usually tried to look at something at least approaching their best. Which was not to say that Miss French looked bad, either. She looked…

Gold forced himself to breathe slower and deeper as he approached the shop.

"Good morning!" said Miss French, smiling at him as though she was actually pleased to see him.

"Good morning, Miss French," Gold said in reply, and looked away quickly. The town clock obliged him with a convenient pretext by choosing that moment to begin striking the hour. He glanced up at it, gathering his thoughts.

Of course she wasn't pleased to see him, or at least if she was, it was only in the sense that he was, perhaps, in a position to provide something that she wanted and so she was prepared to be suitably grateful.

"I hope you don't mind that I'm here so early. We didn't agree on a time to meet," she said, forcing his attention back from the clock tower.

"That's quite all right. I have no other appointments scheduled until later in the day," he assured her. No, he hadn't specified a time. That had not been an oversight. It was always a useful test, to find out just how much someone wanted something of him. And whatever it was that Miss French wanted, it appeared that she wanted it quite desperately. He should have relished that realisation, but somehow it made him feel hollow and empty, particularly when he finally met her eyes again.

She was still smiling at him, and not just a polite, perfunctory let's-do-business-together smile. It was… well, it was a glorious smile that lit up her face, right to the depths of her extraordinary blue eyes. She had an unusual face, almost heart-shaped, and her hair was a warm brown, close to the colour of strong tea. He wondered what it would look like loose, framing her face instead of pulled back like that. Standing this close, he was reminded that she was just a little slip of a thing, slight of build and standing several inches shorter than he, and yet somehow her presence filled the space — not just the doorway but the entire street, or so it seemed to Gold. She was a beautiful woman, there could be no disputing that, but that quality alone rarely had any power to move him. He lived in a town run by Regina Mills, after all, and she'd yet to truly get the better of him in any aspect of their long, not quite openly declared rivalry. Miss French, though… She seemed genuinely happy to see him, and Gold knew that that alone should make him suspicious. And he was suspicious. It was just that he kept having to remind himself of that fact.

Just as Gold became aware that he'd been standing there a fraction too long, just looking at her, Miss French bit her lip, looking suddenly self-conscious. She looked down at her feet, blinking furiously. Blinking away tears?

He had no idea what to make of her, which was not a familiar or welcome feeling, so he stepped past her and busied himself with the lock. He pushed the door open and stepped to one side, gesturing for her to precede him into the shop. The bell tinkled as he closed the door behind them.

"Please, come with me," he said, and led her across the room and behind the curtains shrouding the door to his workroom.

He took the only seat, the chair behind his work desk, and left her standing in the middle of the room. She didn't seem to mind, terribly. She just stood there, looking all about her curiously. Whatever momentary emotion had seized her as they stood outside had, thankfully, passed.

Gold let out a tiny sigh as he settled in the chair, and stretched out his right leg beneath the desk. He steepled his fingers under his chin and gave her a long, considering look. "So, Miss French, how may I be of service to you?" he asked.

She turned back to him — she'd been eyeing the card indexes in the corner with interest — and smiled again. It was a slightly nervous smile this time. She clasped her hands in front of her, her tongue flicking across her top lip before replying.

"I need to borrow some money," she said. "Quite a lot of money, actually."

It took Gold a moment to properly take in what she'd said, but, once he did, he was conscious of feeling some disappointment. It was such a prosaic, run of the mill request. It was _ordinary_.

"And just why should I lend you any money at all, Miss French?" Gold asked, his tone markedly cooler than it had been before.

"You're the only one I can turn to," she began.

"That's not what I asked, dear," he pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

Her hands dropped to her sides, and the look that she directed at him was long and steady. "You should lend it to me because the mayor won't like it," she said quietly.

"Really?" he said, and smiled, though he knew it was more like a shark's show of teeth. "What makes you think that?"

She came over and perched on the edge of the desk, legs half-turned towards him so that she could look him in the eye. "I _know_ that because I need the money to pay off what my father owes her."

He looked her up and down in one long, sweeping glance that he made no attempt to conceal. He was surprised at the liberty she'd taken in sitting there — few in Storybrooke would have had the nerve to do such a thing — but he didn't tell her to get up again. He leaned forward across the desk. This close, he fancied that he could feel her breath against his skin. "How much?" he asked.

"Half a million, give or take a few thousand dollars." She didn't try to move away.

He raised an eyebrow at the figure, though he wasn't greatly surprised. No doubt at least a part of the money had been a genuine business loan, at least to begin with, but Moe French was a gambler; everyone in town knew that. And Regina was never one to play at anything for chicken stakes. "I'm surprised that he went to the mayor for the loan in the first place," he said. "Most people come to me first."

"Yes, I know," Miss French agreed. Was it Gold's imagination or did she sway ever so slightly closer to him then? He remembered his suspicion of the previous evening that she was willing to be... friendly to get what she wanted. "But my father's always kept well away from you. I'm not sure why."

"Prudent man," Gold said, smirking.

"He was, once," she said sadly, and sighed, slumping slightly as she did so.

Gold sat back sharply in his chair, his hands clenching at his sides. It had been one thing to sit there, so very close, knowing that she was almost certainly playing him, knowing that it was imperative to keep the upper hand, and still quietly torturing himself for a moment with the impossibility of ever feeling her soft, lovely curves under his hands; it was quite another to suddenly find himself longing to touch her in order to offer some semblance of comfort.

"Are you all right, Mr Gold?" she asked, twisting in place to look at him. She sounded concerned. "Did you hurt your leg?" she added, her eyes straying to where his cane sat, propped up against the side of the desk.

He was so much older than she that he was probably all but a senior citizen in her eyes, he reminded himself viciously. No doubt she was worried that the old man might have done himself an injury and that she would somehow be held to account for it.

"I'm fine, thank you, dear," he said tightly. "What are you offering?"

"I'm sorry?" Miss French frowned at him, puzzled, and got up off the desk.

"You came here to make a deal with me," he reminded her.

"Yes, I did," she agreed. But she didn't say anything more for a moment, choosing instead to put more distance between them.

"What are you offering in exchange for my help?" he asked as he watched her walk away from him.

She stopped by the small, cluttered side table in front of the bank of card indexes and turned to face him again. He wasn't sure what to make of the expression on her face now. After a moment of silence, she said, "I was going to offer you monthly repayments, obviously."

"You'll have to do better than that," he said quietly but in no way gently.

"Not just that, no," she said. "I know that we'd be paying you back for quite a long-"

"About forty-two years in my estimation, not including interest, of course," Gold put in, idly toying with a coarse-bristled brush that had been left lying on the desk.

"Of course," she agreed.

"But your father already has an agreement of that nature in place with the mayor, I'm sure: the agreement from which you wish to extricate him. So why come to me, unless you have something more... interesting to offer besides a ridiculously low rate of return?"

"I'd rather — much rather — be in your debt than the mayor's," she said.

That made him look up and meet her eyes, and feel the shock of their startling blueness all over again.

"I fear you may well be alone in that preference, Miss French," he said softly. "Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that most people in Storybrooke would much rather not be in debt, either to the mayor or myself."

"Maybe, but I'm still right," she said, and there was no trace of anything remotely soft or uncertain in _her_ voice.

 _Brave_ , he thought. _Foolish, but brave._

She came back, closer to the desk, but she didn't try to sit down on it again. "You always keep to the letter of your deals. The mayor… doesn't."

At that, he smiled, and somehow the smile was more warm pleasure than the mocking flash of teeth he'd intended. "I won't try to argue with that assessment," he said. "Of either myself or the mayor." What she said _was_ true, after all, though it was also true that the other party often lived to regret just how relentlessly Gold followed through on the exact terms of the deals he made.

He sat back in his chair, and they stared at each other for a long moment. The inscrutable look was gone from her face; she was trying hard not to smile now. He could see the tiny, tell-tale crinkling at the corners of her eyes. She shouldn't smile. She shouldn't trust in her ability to manipulate, just because she'd been able to distract him for a fleeting moment and coax that smile from him.

He got up, quite suddenly, using the side of the desk as a support until he was properly on his feet and able to reach for his cane. He came around to the front of the desk and stopped right in front of her.

"So, Miss French, tell me once and for all: what exactly is your offer?" he asked at last.

She didn't flinch. She didn't so much as take a step back. She looked straight back at him.

"The only thing I _can_ offer," she said. "Me. Or, at least, my services for as long as you require them."

It was Gold's turn to look away. He strolled slowly back around the desk and stopped behind the chair. He was quite proud of the steadiness of his voice when at last he asked, as casually as he could, "Oh, yes?"

"I have a lot of experience managing a business. I balance my father's books. I keep an eye on all the orders, and the stock going in and out. I know how to deal with suppliers, and with customers, and how to get rid of either or both if need be," Miss French said, counting off the points on her fingers. "I can do all of those things for you, for as long as you want me to."

Gold looked at her. "That's the best you can do?" he asked, smirking just a little. "What if I'm not in need of your... talents?"

"What, you're telling me this shop isn't crying out for a thorough stock-take?" she looked about the room pointedly. "Not to mention that half the things for sale out there — and pretty much everything in here - look like they could do with a good clean."

"And you haven't even seen what I keep in the basement," Gold murmured.

"Sorry?" she said, but she wasn't. He could hear it in her voice and see it in her eyes: she wasn't sorry at all. She wasn't afraid. Maybe that was what decided him.

Maybe.

"Very well," Gold said. "Miss French, you have a deal."

She smiled then, suddenly, devastatingly, just as she had when she'd first seen him this morning. And then she marched over to the desk and stuck out her hand.

" _We_ have a deal," she said, still holding out her hand expectantly.

He took the proffered hand. Her palm felt warm against his, her handshake firm. Her hand was not as small as might be expected for someone of her diminutive height. Long fingers, he realised. Elegant.

"I’ll have the paperwork drawn up directly, and five-hundred thousand dollars will be deposited in your account by the end of the day. Your account, not your father’s." He emphasised his words with a light squeeze to her hand, which he was still holding.

"This deal is between you and me," Miss French agreed, nodding. Gold couldn’t help but notice that she also had not let go of his hand. He waited, curious to see how long she would try to draw it out.

"And what will your father say about this deal?" Gold asked. "Does he know what you've promised, or even that you've come to me?"

"He doesn't know. Not yet. But it's not his decision. I'm a grown woman, and no one decides my fate but me," she said firmly.

Gold stumbled, even though he hadn't taken a step, and dropped her hand like a hot coal.

"Is everything all right, Mr Gold?" she asked, sounding worried, though God alone knew why she should be. No one was ever worried about him. Worried about what he _could_ do, for sure, and worried about what he _might_ do, most certainly, but not worried _for_ him. And that was how he liked it, how he wanted it. But of course she wanted something from him, he reminded himself. She wouldn’t want anything to happen to her potential source of funds until the money was safely in the bank.

Gold pulled himself up to his full height, and shook his head. "I'm fine, Miss French. Just someone walking over my grave. That's all."

She didn't press the issue, for which he was profoundly grateful, since he had no idea himself why her unremarkable turn of phrase had affected him so badly. "Nobody calls me that," she said instead. "Miss French, I mean."

"Oh, yes?" he said, still trying hard to regain his equilibrium.

"My name's Isabella," she said, watching him carefully. "Most people call me Bella. Or Belle."

The pain was sudden, catching him like a leaden weight to the chest. For a moment, he wondered if he was having a heart attack, and that maybe earlier she'd been right to be concerned for the health of a crippled old man. But he didn't start gasping for breath, or fall to the ground in agony. The pain dulled, and spread, and settled, and after a short moment he came to realise that what he was experiencing was a feeling of loss. Grief. For someone with a name like hers, like… Bella's. He thought he'd known someone with a name like that once, though he couldn't quite remember for sure, which was probably for the best. If a memory so hazy brought a reaction like this, what would a proper memory do to him?

"Mr Gold!" She — Miss French — sounded even more concerned than before.

He swallowed, and looked up — when had he bent his head so low against his chest like that? — and took a deep breath. "I'm fine," he said.

"You don't look it," she said bluntly, but she seemed reassured at hearing him speak again.

"I’m fine," he repeated, more firmly this time. "Miss French..."

"Yes?"

"That's how I'll address you while you work for me: Miss French. I prefer a certain formality in the workplace."

"Fine," she said briskly. "So when would you like me to start?"

"What is it they say?" Gold said. "There's no time like the present. It's been some time since I took a proper inventory of my holdings. We should start with the-"

The jangling ring of an old-fashioned telephone cut through their conversation.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment, my d- Miss French?" Gold asked as he fished his cellphone out of his pocket. "Please wait for me in the shop, and tell any customers who may come in that I'll be with them shortly."

"Got it," she said, nodding, and disappeared through the curtain and out into the shop.

He glanced at the caller id as he answered the call, and smiled briefly. This source could always be relied upon to come through with the goods — and this time even sooner than Gold had anticipated.

"Gold," he said, holding the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment, then asked, "And you're sure of this? You have proof?" He nodded slowly as proof was duly provided. "How very interesting," he said. "Continue keeping an eye on her for the moment, and let me know of any developments, particularly in relation to the boy." He waited again to hear the reply. "Oh, and one more thing: do a background check on Miss Isabella French, the florist's daughter, and see if you can find out the details of any financial obligations her father may have incurred with the mayor — either official or unofficial."

A moment later, Gold returned the phone to his pocket. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips as he drew back the curtain and went out into the shop. To borrow from the old Chinese curse, today was shaping up to be an interesting day — exactly the sort of day that Gold lived for.


	3. Chapter 3

Gold watched Miss French.

She was alone in the shop when he returned from taking the call in the workroom, her head bent over the pair of ugly puppets that sat gathering dust on top of one of the long glass display cabinets. She did not look up when Gold parted the curtains. Her attention remained on the puppets, a slight frown knitting her brow as she bent down further to examine them more closely. Gold remained where he was, stopped in the doorway, not transfixed, not exactly, but certainly struck by the sight of her without any clear idea as to why.

Well, apart from the obvious reason, and Gold didn't care to think of himself as obvious, in anything. There had to be more to his reaction to her than just… that. There was something about her, something that set her apart. He was damned if he knew what it was — yet. Her continuing presence in the shop should at least provide him with the opportunity to get to the bottom of that not quite definable something, to puzzle out the conundrum that she presented.

He forced himself to move, to take that first step forward. She looked up at his approach, smiling at him again. He pursed his lips, mainly to stop himself from smiling right back at her.

"The clamouring hordes of customers didn't overwhelm you too badly?" he enquired.

"Not yet," she said, "but give them time."

His lips quirked into a tiny smile. "Oh, in that contest, my money wouldn't be on them," he assured her.

She laughed, a mischievous light in her eye, and her smile broadened. "You should wait until you've seen me in action before making any rash decisions," she said. Her smile turned a trifle sheepish, as she realised what she'd just said. "I suppose you already have, though. Made a rash decision in relation to me, I mean."

"None of the decisions I make are ever rash, Miss French. And you forget, I have seen you in action."

"You have?" she asked, and her eyes narrowed a little. She was no longer laughing, but giving him her full and serious attention. It felt as though she could see right through him.

Gold looked away, reaching blindly for whatever was closest to hand on the counter. "Just now," he said. "Or did you think that successfully negotiating a deal with me was an achievement within the powers of just anyone?" He made himself look up and meet her eyes.

"Oh, no!" she said. "Not at all. I just…" Her voice trailed off to nothing, and for just a second she looked unhappy. Disappointed. She shrugged, and smiled uncertainly, clearly embarrassed.

Not enjoying the feeling of having somehow failed her, Gold retreated back onto more familiar ground: the terms a deal. "Perhaps we should make a start on the inventory, Miss French," he suggested, "since that's why you're here, after all."

"Fine," Miss French said, nodding. She looked even more relieved at the change of subject than Gold.

"You should begin with the stock on the shop floor, and progress from there to the items within the display cabinets. It would be best to leave the more… problematic items in the back room until later, I think," Gold said smoothly, running a finger along the top of the nearest cabinet.

"And what about the basement?"

"What basement?" Gold asked. His fingertip stilled against the glass and he looked up.

"Earlier, during our discussion, you mentioned that there were also things in the basement," Miss French said, frowning down at the floor at his feet, almost as though she expected to find a trapdoor there.

"Did I?" Gold asked, and let himself look thoughtful for a second, pretending to consider the question. "Ah, yes, perhaps I did. Just a little joke of mine. A quip, if you will. There's no basement here."

Miss French glanced up at him sharply. Clearly, she didn't know what to believe about the existence — or not — of the basement, which suited Gold just fine. It didn't hurt to leave her wondering about such inconsequentialities; that way, even if she happened to notice certain other… peculiarities about the shop, she was less likely to recognise their relative importance.

"A quip," she said doubtfully. "Okay, then."

"It surprises you?" Gold asked. "That I have a sense of humour, I mean — such as it is," he added with a self-deprecating shrug.

Miss French shook her head. "No, I, uh, I thought all of these old buildings had basements. That's all." She was still watching him, directing a searching gaze at him now. He had the distinct impression that she was looking for something specific, an answer to a question that had nothing whatsoever to do with any basement. He felt as though there was another conversation going on here, in addition to what was being said, and that for once _he_ was the one who couldn't quite hear it.

"Not this one, at least so far as I know," he said, answering her words and ignoring her look. "Who knows what might be lying in wait under Storybrooke, though, if someone cared to start digging." He gestured to a pickaxe that hung suspended from a hook on the wall opposite.

She snorted, half-swallowing a laugh.

"Do you perhaps know something I don't, Miss French?" he enquired.

"Oh, I'm sure of it, Mr Gold," she said. A tiny smile, a last echo of her laughter, tugged at her lips and lent a sparkle of mischief to her blue eyes. Standing there like that, she was an arresting sight.

Gold realised, belatedly, that he was smiling back at her. Again. He shut his eyes a split second longer than it took to blink, and when he opened them again the smile was gone. He wondered what else she wanted from him. The way she kept looking at him told him that there must be something more, even if it was just some misguided attempt to distract him with her… attributes and play him for a fool. She would soon find out that she wouldn't get far if she tried to wriggle out of their verbal agreement, much less a signed contract. Regardless, she would bear watching.

"You'll find pens and paper in the top drawer of the bureau at the back of the work room," he said briskly. "For the inventory," he added, in case she'd forgotten that that was why she was here. "Start wherever you wish out here, but please take careful note of each item's physical location, and its proximity to other objects. The card indexes in the back room should be of some use. Make a note on your list if there's an existing acquisitions card — not everything has one. Some of these items have been here longer than I have."

"Perhaps," Miss French murmured, in a way that briefly made Gold feel older than Methuselah. "Anything else I should be aware of?" she added, a little louder.

"One more thing," Gold said, in a voice that carefully betrayed nothing. "I have some business in town this morning. The shop will be closed until I return. Please continue with your work and do not let anyone in in the meantime."

"Right," she said, nodding.

There was silence. She was looking at him expectantly.

"Well, then," said Gold, feeling somehow awkward. "Until I return, then, Miss French." Nodding in dismissal, he made his way across the room, pausing only to ensure that the sign in the window was turned to 'closed' before hastening out the door.

"Goodbye, Mr Gold," she called after him, just as she had last night.

He hesitated in the doorway, mouth suddenly dry. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, composing himself. And then, without another word, he closed the door behind him and walked out onto the street.

He stopped again, just outside the door, inhaling deeply and looking up and down the street. The town was coming properly to life now, as the day got underway. The air was sharper and more bracing out here, a welcome change from the stuffiness of the shop.

Gold's fingers gripped tighter around the handle of his cane, and he curled his lip in disgust at himself. The stuffy atmosphere of the shop was something he cultivated; it had never troubled him before today. Enabling others to tell themselves what they wanted to hear was a part of his stock in trade, his modus operandi. Attempting to deceive _himself_ , though… That was something to be guarded against with the utmost vigilance.

He set off down the street at a brisk pace. His first stop was his lawyer's office. The receptionist — young, overly made-up and with dark hair piled high on her head - looked up from filing one long, blood-red talon as he entered, and promptly dropped her nail file.

"Mr Gold!" She jumped to her feet. "Please take a seat," she added quickly, indicating the row of chairs in the waiting area opposite her desk. "I'll tell Mr Hall you're here."

"Thank you, dear," Gold said, as the girl hurried away, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he idly inspected the prints on the wall — all reproductions of exceedingly ordinary landscapes — as he waited to be ushered into the main office.

He did not have to wait long. He never did. Richard Hall came out to meet him himself, the receptionist trailing along in his wake.

"Mr Gold! What a pleasant surprise," Hall said, reaching to shake Gold's hand. Hall was a big man, tall and heavily built, and everything about him was of a size to match. His manner was as expansive as the reach of his great arms, and his smile almost as broad. He was smiling at Gold now, a little too broadly. There was just the tiniest hint of strain to be seen there, around the corners of the mouth and along the jaw.

Gold clearly hadn't lost his touch. He smiled in turn, a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes, and watched Hall's smile turn slightly sickly at the sight.

"Mr Hall," he said, shaking Hall's hand briefly but firmly enough to be a warning, if need be. "It's good of you to see me on such short notice."

"Always a pleasure, Mr Gold," Hall replied quickly. "If you'll come this way?" he added, ushering Gold along the corridor and into his office.

Gold took the seat that was offered this time, and waited as Hall settled into the chair on the other side of his desk.

"How may I help you today, Mr Gold?" Hall asked quickly, knowing Gold more than well enough to be aware that idle small talk was not something Gold appreciated.

"Just a routine little job, Mr Hall, to do with a matter that has come up a trifle unexpectedly." Gold paused, waiting just long enough for the line of tension to start up along Hall's jaw again before continuing: "I need a contract drawn up." Gold possessed more than enough expertise in contract law to draw up such a contract in his sleep, of course, but he was a hunt and peck typist at best, so it suited him to draw on the skills and resources of others when it came to the administrative side of things. It also didn't hurt to have a finger in this particular pie along with all his other business… interests. Besides, it was vastly entertaining to watch a man like Richard Hall break a sweat at his slightest word.

"Ah!" Hall said, breathing out the word in relief. "How soon do you need it?" he enquired.

"Oh, there's no hurry. By lunchtime today should be fine," Gold replied, confining almost all of his malicious enjoyment to a small quirk of the lips as Hall buzzed for his secretary to join them.

The woman who entered the room shortly afterwards was someone unfamiliar to Gold. She was older than the receptionist — quite considerably older. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with grey, and she was dressed with propriety rather than any sort of flair.

"Mr Gold, my new secretary Mrs Shepherd," Hall said, gesturing for the secretary to take the chair against the far wall.

Mrs Shepherd murmured a polite greeting, and sat. She took a second to smooth the skirt of her grey suit over her knees, and then looked up attentively, her pencil poised over the notebook she had brought with her.

"The usual layout, Mr Gold? For the contract?" Hall asked.

"Yes, just as usual," Gold replied.

"I'll show you an example from a previous contract for reference later, Ruth," Hall said, turning to Mrs Shepherd for a second.

"It's all right, Mr Hall. I've already familiarised myself with the standard layout preferred by Mr Gold," Mrs Shepherd said.

 _That_ caught Gold's interest. "Really?" he said, bringing his hands together, and frowning as he turned to look at her properly. "Since I gave no advance warning, you couldn't have known I intended to visit here this morning."

"I like to be prepared," she said quietly.

"Yes, I can see that you do," Gold said, still eyeing her thoughtfully.

Mrs Shepherd met his gaze for several seconds before she looked away. "Whenever you're ready, Mr Gold," she said, keeping her eyes firmly on her notebook.

Gold spared her one last, speculative look, and leaned back in his chair. "The contract is between myself, M.R. Gold, and Miss Isabella French," he began.

It didn't take long to set out the terms of the contract. Mrs Shepherd's shorthand speed was impressive; Gold hoped that her swiftness was equalled by her accuracy. Somehow, he thought that that would prove to be the case.

Almost as soon as she finished scribbling in her notebook, Mrs Shepherd got to her feet. "If there isn't anything more for the moment, Mr Gold, Mr Hall," — she nodded briefly at each of them in turn — "I'll get this typed up directly."

"Thank you, dear," Gold said.

"That will be all, thank you, Ruth," Hall said, and waved her out of the office.

Hall took up his gold-plated pen, fidgeting with it, and then looking up quickly. He seemed about to speak, once the door had closed behind Mrs Shepherd with a quiet snick, but instead he said nothing and, after another moment, returned the pen to its holder. He was curious about the terms of the contract, Gold could tell. They were rather more open-ended and vague than was usual for Gold's contracts, or so it would appear. But Hall knew only too well that his continued discretion was the price for Gold's continuing to do business with his little firm. For a man like Hall, self-interest would always triumph over curiosity.

"I really must be going," Gold said, just as Hall opened his mouth to speak.

"Of course, of course," Hall said quickly. "You're a busy man, I know, Mr Gold. I'll have the contract couriered over to you as soon as it's ready."

"I am a busy man," Gold agreed, rising from his chair. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Hall, as always."

"And you, Mr Gold," Hall said, also getting to his feet.

"I'll see myself out," Gold told him, as Hall came around the side of the desk.

Hall nodded. "I trust we'll see you again soon, Mr Gold."

"Quite soon, I would think," Gold said, not elaborating, and they shook hands. Hall's meaty hand felt clammy against Gold's dry palm.

Mrs Shepherd was nowhere to be seen in the outer office. The receptionist was still at the front desk, giggling on the telephone now. She put down the receiver on the desk with an audible thump, mid-sentence, upon seeing Gold emerge from Hall's office, and trotted out on impossibly high heels to open the front door for him.

"Thank you, my dear," Gold said mildly.

She cast him an apprehensive glance and quickly pulled the door closed behind him the moment he was safely outside. It was the sort of reaction that Gold was more than used to receiving from young women. Or at least it had been, until very lately.

Gold had intended to make a few more calls on matters of business while he was out in the town this morning, but instead he found himself retracing his footsteps back to his shop.

It was getting close to nine o'clock — according to the newly-restored clock in its tower — when he turned into Main Street once again. Out of habit, he shot a quick glance up and down the street, and immediately spotted a familiar shock of blonde hair on the other side of the road. He wasn't terribly surprised to find that Miss Swan had survived her first night in town. However, he was a little surprised to see the company she was keeping. She was walking swiftly down the street, engrossed in conversation with the mayor's boy. Neither of them noticed him and Gold made no attempt to draw their attention. He just watched for a moment, watched and wondered, and then he went on his way.

He didn't hesitate on the doorstep when he reached his shop. He went straight in through the door, and quickly glanced around the room. His mood deflated slightly when he realised that Miss French was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she'd thought better of their bargain, and gone home to her father. It was true that most verbal contracts weren't worth the paper they were written on, but any deal made with Gold, even one based on not much more than a promise and a handshake, was far from easy to break, as Miss French would find to her c-

A thump sounded from the back room, followed by a muffled imprecation.

Gold's stomach unclenched, and he let out a shaky breath. She was still here.

The sound of another thump galvanised him into action, and he hastened through the curtain to the work room to discover the cause of all the sound effects.

B- Miss French was crouched in front of the low wooden doors at the base of the old china cabinet by the far wall. The doors were open, and Miss French was peering inside. Gold couldn't help but notice that the skin tight jeans she wore accentuated the curve of her backside.

He'd been standing there for several moments before he remembered to announce his presence. He cleared his throat ostentatiously. "And just what do you think you're doing, Miss French?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. "Oh, good. It's you," she said as she stood up and turned to face him.

It wasn't at all the sort of reaction he'd been expecting. There was no suggestion of guilt or apprehension to be heard in her voice or to be seen in her clear blue eyes.

"I was looking for a teacup," she said — in answer to his question, he realised.

She nodded towards the table, where his small, portable stovetop was set up, the cord snaking across the floor to the power outlet. The kettle sat beside it on the heavy, cast iron trivet, together with the tea canister, the teapot Gold kept at the shop, and the matching cup and saucer.

"You appear to have found a teacup already," Gold pointed out.

"Only _one_ teacup — unless you'd like to share?" she asked brightly.

Gold just looked at her, quite unsure how to respond to that. The mental images that arrived, unbidden, were of no help whatsoever. "You wish to take tea… with me," he said slowly.

"I'm fond of tea. When I found the kettle and the tea things in the cupboard, I realised that you must be, too. I thought we could toast our contract in tea — if that's all right with you?"

"Oh, quite all right," he said. "Assuming that you _do_ know how to make tea? Properly, I mean, with more than just a cup of lukewarm water and a teabag."

Miss French made a face, and actually shuddered slightly. "My father does that," she explained. "Well, he uses hot water, but he heats it in the mug, in the microwave, and then adds the teabag."

They shared a look of horror.

"And you think that I'll trust my superfine Darjeeling to the daughter of a man who does _that_ and calls it _tea?_ " Gold asked, eyebrows raised. He did not smile. He absolutely did not.

"I didn't say that _I_ made tea that way," she protested. "I think that water heated in the microwave makes the tea taste vile. It doesn't steep properly."

"Indeed it does not," Gold agreed. "It alters the oxygen content of the water."

"So, do you have any other teacups around here? Ones that we can use, I mean. I found a tea set in one of the display cabinets out in the shop, but I didn't like to touch it, since it's for sale."

"The one with the design of pink roses," Gold said, nodding. "One of those cups will do for now."

She smiled. "Thank you," she said simply.

"It's nothing," Gold said, and looked away, flustered. "I'll get the teacup," he said, and made his escape.

The main shop was quiet and peaceful, with nothing to show that today was any different from any other day. The silence was broken only by the click of the small gold key in the lock as Gold opened the display cabinet. He bent to retrieve a cup and saucer, placed it on the main counter and considered it. The tea set was not one he ever would have chosen to own. It really was incredibly, frightfully undistinguished, and not just because of the garish pink roses. The quality of the porcelain was ordinary at best, and the shape of the cup and the too-small handle altogether too fussy for Gold's tastes. Still, it would hold tea, and right now that was all that mattered.

He returned to the work room to find Miss French setting the kettle onto the stovetop. He did not speak to her, but continued on through to the small bathroom at the very back, and rinsed the cup and saucer thoroughly under the tap in the tiny sink. Entering the workroom once again, he was just in time to see Miss French spooning tea into the teapot.

"How many?" he asked, watching her every move as she set down the teaspoon and replaced the lid on the tea canister.

She glanced up, a questioning look on her face.

"How many spoons of tea did you use?" he clarified.

"Three," she said, as though it were obvious. "One for each cup, and then one for the pot."

His gaze flickered from her face, to the teapot, and back to her face. "Very good," he said.

" _Very nice_ ," she retorted, nodding at the tea canister. "Walter doesn't tend to stock whole leaf Darjeeling very often. Or at all."

"I get it by special order," Gold admitted.

"SFTGFOP, right?"

Gold blinked. "How on earth did you deduce that?"

She shrugged and sat back against the edge of the desk. "You said it was superfine Darjeeling. That means Super Fine Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe from Darjeeling — doesn't it?"

"Very good indeed," Gold said, intrigued. There were very few people in Storybrooke with any interest in tea, let alone knowledge of it. Before today, he would have stated with some confidence that only he himself, together with one other who barely counted as a resident, had ever drunk a cup of tea that didn't come from a bag.

"I told you, I'm fond of tea." She smiled at him impishly.

"Yes, you did," Gold said, and this time he didn't try to stop himself from returning the smile.

It was only seconds — or maybe a little longer — before the shrill whistle of the kettle cut through the moment.

"I'll make the tea," Miss French said quickly, before Gold had a chance to make a move, and lifted the kettle off the heat and set it down on the trivet. She didn't make any attempt to pour the water into the teapot, though, for which Gold was profoundly grateful. "Better just let it cool a bit before letting it get anywhere near those tea leaves," she said, a too-innocent look on her face. She knew just what he'd been thinking, he was sure.

"Since you have everything under control, I'll leave you to it," Gold said, with only the faintest trace of irony. He went back out into the shop, and only realised when he was actually standing behind the counter, with the day book open before him, that he was at somewhat of a loss as to what to do next. Generally, when he was in the shop and between customers — of every sort — he took inventory. But he'd told Miss French that it had been a long time since the last inventory; he'd employed her on that pretext. He couldn't very well turn around now and start taking inventory as though it was a routine thing — even though it was.

He looked down at the columns of figures on the pages of the day book without really seeing them. What was he thinking? He'd allowed himself to be left floundering like this, and open to her scrutiny, and for what? Why had he accepted her proposition and agreed to such a deal? When it came to business, there wasn't a shrewder head in Storybrooke than his, nor one more ruthless. Even his worst enemies would grudgingly admit that, quite as much as his… as much as anyone else.

He was glad none of them was here to see him right now.

His fingers clenched, so hard that it hurt. Only then did he realise that his left hand was gripping the Murano glass paperweight that he kept on the main counter. It would make a satisfying smash, if he were to hurl it against the wall. Well, it would, if the wall of the shop were made of stone — which, of course, it wasn't. He took his hand away carefully, and stuffed his fist in his pocket.

He stood there a while longer, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to _think_ \- surely for the first time ever — until finally he couldn't stand his own inaction any longer, and started wandering aimlessly around his own shop, pausing to inspect an item here and an item there, as though he was doing so for some good reason.

"Mr Gold?"

It still came as a surprise, to hear Miss French call his name and to turn around to find her standing in front of the doorway to the back room as though she belonged there.

"The tea?" she said, holding up the teacup with the pink roses on it.

"Ah, yes," he said, with what he hoped was a smooth and self-assured look, and followed her back into the workroom. "I was so busy I'd almost forgotten."

He took the seat at the desk, as he had before. She made no comment, but set about pouring the tea. She did so with what was clearly practised ease, the fingertips of her left hand placed lightly against the finial of the teapot as she held the handle with her right. She filled both cups to within half an inch of the rim, and set the teapot down again.

"I'm sorry," she said, offering him the cup and saucer from which he always drank while at the shop: delicate white porcelain decorated with a thin band of green. "I couldn't find any sugar."

"I don't take sugar in my tea. That may well be the reason why you couldn't find it in the cupboard," he suggested, taking the saucer from her carefully and setting it down on the desk in front of him.

"Oh," she said, not quite managing to hide her surprise.

"Do you think that I look like the type to take tea with sugar?" he enquired.

"Well, from some of the things I've heard about you, Mr Gold, I'd say that you could do with a bit of sweetening," she replied, sweetly, and settled back against the edge of the desk.

"It's not wise to listen to gossip, dear, particularly gossip about your employer," he told her, all too aware of her closeness, just as he had been when she'd perched on the desk earlier.

"Oh, it wasn't gossip," she assured him, with just the hint of a twinkle in her eye, and picked up her teacup. She brought the cup to her lips, but she didn't drink it immediately. Instead, she breathed in the aroma of it, her eyes closing in something that looked a great deal like real pleasure.

Gold swallowed hard, even though his cup of tea remained untouched. Was she doing it on purpose? She must be, and yet Gold found that he couldn't quite disbelieve her. The look on her face was one of sincere enjoyment.

He forced himself to look away, down at the desktop where his own tea awaited him. He raised the cup to his lips, and sipped cautiously. He rarely allowed anyone else to make tea for him, and for good reason. He swirled the tea around in his mouth before swallowing, preparing himself for the disappointment that almost inevitably followed whenever he drank tea not of his own making.

The tea tasted… Gold frowned. It tasted close to the way he would have prepared it himself. It wasn't over-brewed, nor was it too weak, and Miss French had waited for the water to cool sufficiently long before adding it to the pot that Gold could detect not the slightest hint of scorched leaves in the flavour. It was perhaps just the tiniest bit more astringent than he preferred, but _that_ he was prepared to overlook on a first attempt.

"Oh!" said Miss French, twisting around to face him properly and very nearly spilling tea all over both of them in the process. "This was meant to be a toast, remember?" She raised her teacup in his direction and held it there, expectantly.

Gold looked from her to the cup, and wordlessly raised his own in turn.

"To a successful deal," Miss French said, and then, as Gold was already drawing back, she added, "May we both get exactly what we want from each other."

Gold's hand went still so suddenly that tea sloshed over the sides of his cup and spattered on the desk below. He ignored it. His eyes were on her, and hers were on him. She was so close that he could just reach out and touch her, if he so chose. He could…

Miss French smiled, a little ruefully, and reached out to him. He didn't try to stop her, but just sat there, still and hardly daring to breathe.

Her cup clinked against his, and she drew back again. She sipped her tea, blue eyes regarding him over the rim of her teacup. Gold belatedly did the same.

"So, what do you think of the tea? Is it acceptable — particularly coming from the daughter of a man who makes tea in the microwave?" she asked, settling fully onto the desk and letting her feet dangle above the floor.

Gold didn't reply directly. Instead, eyes still on her, he set the teacup back in its saucer, took out his phone and made a call.

"This is Mr Gold," he said. "Put me through to Mrs Shepherd, please."

A moment later, Mrs Shepherd came on the line.

"No, there's no need to apologise," he told her. "I just require you to add one more thing to the terms of the contract before you send it over to me." He waited a few seconds before continuing, "Insert the following into paragraph 3, section B: 'Miss Isabella French will prepare tea every morning, and at other times, as directed.'" He waited a few more seconds. "Yes, Mrs Shepherd, that will be all. Thank you, and goodbye."

Gold returned the phone to his pocket. "Is that a good enough answer for you?" he asked, and took another sip of his tea.

"Yes," she said, blinking rapidly as she looked away.

He didn't know what to make of the expression on her face right before she hid it behind her raised teacup.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes events and dialogue from episode 1x02 - "The Thing You Love Most".

They lingered over their tea, sipping slowly and savouring every drop of it. They didn't say much as they drank. Gold felt no pressing need to fill the quiet with idle chatter — not that he ever did — but neither, it seemed, did Miss French. The silence was companionable. Almost comfortable. It was a refreshing change from the company of… well, of anyone.

Eventually, Gold drained the last of the tea from his cup, and set it down in its saucer. "Well, then," he said.

"Well," Miss French echoed, putting down her own empty cup.

They looked at each other, and then quickly away.

"I'll clear away the tea things," Miss French offered, slipping off the edge of the desk and onto her feet. She had picked up both cups and saucers and was heading for the bathroom before Gold could so much as acquiesce. He sat there and watched her walk away from him, only rising from his chair when he heard the rush of the water through the pipes.

He went out into the main shop. It was quite empty of customers, which was hardly unusual. Gold closed the day book, though he left it on the counter, and then he limped across to the sideboard by the wall, and took a cloth from one of the drawers. He took up the antique German glass-domed clock, just one of the veritable forest of clocks grouped together behind the counter, and rubbed it gently with the cloth, cleaning off the fine layer of dust that had collected on the glass.

He'd worked his way methodically through several of the collection of clocks, and was wiping down a camel back mantel clock, when Miss French emerged from behind the curtain.

"Isn't that supposed to be my job?" she asked, nodding at the cloth in Gold's hands.

"Yes, it's mentioned in the contract, as you will see," he said. "But that doesn't preclude anything I choose to do myself."

Miss French nodded, and glanced around the shop, as though that would be enough to commit every detail of its contents to memory. Gold silently wished her luck with that.

"Are we open now?" Miss French asked.

Gold looked down at the clock in his hands. "It's after ten o'clock on a Friday morning. The shop is almost always open by now."

"Shall I change the sign on the door to 'open', then?" Miss French asked.

Gold considered and discarded half a dozen possible replies to that question. In the end, rather than admit that he'd forgotten all about the bloody sign, he answered, "Yes, thank you," and turned to exchange the camel back clock for a vintage wall clock. He wiped the grime off the face of clock so vigorously that motes of dust were left in mid-air, dancing in one of the thin rays of sunlight shining in between the slats of the half-closed venetian blinds.

"There," Miss French said in satisfaction, just as the bell tinkled.

Gold looked up to see Miss French hastily stepping back from the door to allow a tall young man, carrying a satchel and wearing very tight shorts, to enter the shop.

"Charlie!" Miss French exclaimed.

"Morning, Bella," the boy said, with a cheerful smile.

Miss French looked him up and down. "I like the shorts," she said, grinning. "Lycra?"

"Yeah! I just got them yesterday. I think they'll make riding the bike around town all day a whole lot easier," he said, looking down at her with puppy-like enthusiasm through too-long floppy dark hair.

"So you're still doing the courier thing?" she asked, though Gold thought that that must have been obvious from what the boy had just said, if not from his ridiculous get-up.

"Yep," he said. "And you? You're… working here?" he asked, glancing over at the sign in the window.

"Yes I-"

"Miss French is my employee," Gold cut in, his voice as quiet as it was cold. He put down the clock and the cleaning cloth and came out from behind the counter. "As such," he continued, "she has more pressing matters to attend to than to stand about and chat all morning."

"Yes, Mr Gold," the boy said, his smile fled.

"So, I take it there is some reason for this visit, Mr Randall?"

"Oh. Yeah," the boy said hastily, unbuckling the satchel and pulling out a large yellow envelope, slightly crushed at the edges. He handed it to Gold. "From Mrs Shepherd. Well, from Mr Hall, really, I guess, but-"

"Thank you. I know what it is," Gold said. "What I don't know, however," he went on, his voice going from cold to something icier, "is why you chose to enter through the front door to make such a delivery."

"Well, I-"

"The _back_ door next time. If there is a next time," Gold said.

The boy nodded jerkily, and then turned and fled. The bell jangled discordantly as the door slammed behind him.

Miss French was still standing by the door, and now she turned to look directly at Gold. The stare she sent his way wasn't in any way apprehensive, or uncertain, or even particularly angry. It was a little bit hard, but mostly sad. She didn't say anything, but somehow her silence was worse than any reproach would have been. Words could be easily dealt with, after all. They could be disputed and twisted and denied.

Gold chose not to return the stare for long. Instead, he returned the cleaning cloth to its drawer and took out the ivory-handled letter opener that he kept in the drawer adjacent. He slit the side of the envelope and pulled out the contents: the contract, neatly typed and impeccably laid out, with a brief covering note from Mrs Shepherd attached to the front with a paperclip. The corner of Gold's mouth quirked into a small, reluctant grin. He had to admire the sheer efficiency of the woman, even if he still wondered about her motives. He spread the pages out on the counter, and quickly looked them over.

"I should leave you to your paperwork and make a proper start on the stocktake," Miss French said, and started towards the door to the workroom.

"Wait," said Gold, holding up a hand.

Miss French stopped, just short of the counter, and waited obediently — though the look on her face spoke more of curiosity than any sort of subservience.

"This isn't _my_ paperwork, it's _our_ contract," Gold said, gathering up the pages and clipping them back together. He leaned over to open the cash register, and took out his gold fountain pen from its place inside the till. "Please look it over, and sign at the bottom."

He held out both contract and pen to her, and she took them without a word.

He watched and waited while she read through the contract. She took her time — of course she did. Even on so short an acquaintance, Gold was certain that Miss French would never be one to blithely sign her name to anything without reading every word of the fine print.

She didn't make any sort of response until she reached the bottom of the last page. Then she flipped the pages back over and looked up.

"I… It's not exactly what I expected," she said.

"Indeed?" Gold asked, raising his eyebrows as though in surprise.

"I have a few questions, if that's all right?" she asked.

"Of course," he said, spreading his hands before him to indicate that she should continue.

"You- There's nothing about the repayment rate. In fact, the repayments aren't mentioned at all."

"No, they're not mentioned," he agreed, folding his hands.

"So… how do you want to handle that?"

"There's no need to 'handle' that, as you put it, at all."

"What do you mean?" she asked with a slight frown.

"The terms of the contract are clear," Gold said calmly, though he observed her mounting uncertainty with more than a little interest. It was refreshing to retain the upper hand with her for more than a fleeting moment. But then, no one knew contracts like he did.

" _No_ , they're _not_ ," Miss French said, folding her arms. Her eyes sparkled with something other than mischief for once.

"If there is no mention of something in a contract, then clearly it isn't covered by that contract."

"So… what are you saying, exactly? That the repayments are going to be covered by a separate contract?"

Gold sighed, in a slightly put-upon way, and shook his head slowly. "No, Miss French. There's only this contract, and we need only concern ourselves with the terms set out in it. There's no mention of monetary repayments in the contract simply because I don't require that form of payment in return for this particular loan."

That silenced her. Her frown deepened. "You don't want my father's money?" she asked at last.

"A deal can always be struck where two people each have something of value to the other. However, not everything possesses a value that can be measured in simple dollars and cents. Some things are a bit more… specialised."

"So you're saying that I…?" She stared at him, letting the question hang, unfinished.

"Yes, Miss French. _You_. Or, rather, the skills you've developed in running your father's business. Your presence here, in this shop, on a regular basis, is of far greater value to me than a regular payment into my bank account — particularly a regular payment so small that it would quickly become lost among the considerably more substantial sums being paid by others."

His explanation was met with silence.

He waited, and at length she said, "Why?"

"I've told you why."

She closed her eyes for a long couple of seconds. "All right, then," she said. "I'll sign." She put the pages down on the counter, and uncapped the fountain pen.

It was his turn to be disconcerted. "There's nothing else you want to ask about? No detail that gave you pause?"

Miss French tilted her head to one side and regarded him through slightly narrowed eyes. "No," she said. "Should there be?"

"So, there's nothing in there to which you have any objection?" He frowned, silently chastising himself for asking the question. There was no profit to be had in alerting her to the less favourable — for her — aspects of the contract. It wasn't the sort of question he usually would have asked anyone, in relation to any contract. But this one was different. He already knew that. This time, he _wanted_ her to understand what she was agreeing to, rather than just simply obtaining her agreement. The terms of the contract meant that he would be in close contact with Miss French every day; he didn't want that contact to be under duress. He didn't want to have to deal with moodiness or tears. He wanted a calm, quiet and ordered workplace, which meant that a certain degree of honesty and plain speaking was required up front. It was a novel concept.

"No," she said flatly.

His mind was so busy weighing up contingencies that it took Gold a moment to remind himself of the question he'd just asked her. His frown, still directed mainly at himself, deepened. "Not even the duration of the contract?" he asked.

"I told you that I'd work for you as long as you wanted me to. I expected that to be covered in the terms of the contract, and it is."

"I could make you stay here forever," he pointed out.

"Yes," she said. "You could." She smiled sadly, and looked down at the pages of the contract.

"And that doesn't bother you?" Gold knew he was pressing the point beyond what was needful, and yet he asked the question anyway.

"I'll do whatever I have to, to fix this situation," she said and, eyes still firmly on the contract, she took up the pen and signed her name at the bottom. "Your turn," she said, setting the pen down and stepping back from the counter to make room for him.

"Thank you, Miss French," Gold said. He signed with a flourish, and then it was done. The deal was struck.

Gold took up the pages and returned them to their envelope. He glanced over at Miss French as he did so, and at last she deigned to look at him again, her eyes serious — and still so very clear and blue that he couldn't not notice them. "Perhaps you'd care to make a proper start on the stocktake sometime soon?" he suggested.

"Yes, of course." The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It's all a bit of an anti-climax, isn't it?"

"What is?" Gold asked, folding over the edge of the envelope and using the paperclip to hold it shut.

"This deal. All of this." Miss French made a sweeping, open-armed gesture taking in the shop at large. "Making a deal with the legendary Mr Gold — and now I've got to do a stocktake."

"Legendary?" Gold raised his eyebrows.

"Well, aren't you?"

"That's not the first word that would come to the minds of most people in this town if they were asked to describe me," he said. "'Notorious', surely. Or, perhaps, 'feared'."

"I'd go with 'notorious', but not 'feared'. At least, not universally."

"Indeed? And just who is this fool… this _brave person_ who doesn't fear me?" he enquired, letting the merest hint of a mocking smile touch his lips.

"Me. I don't fear you." She said it resolutely, her jaw firming in determination, for all the world as though she were some sort of plucky heroine from a novel, about to embark on a hopeless quest.

"I'm gratified to hear it," Gold said dryly, "if for no other reason than that your constantly going in fear of me would be bound to prove tiresome after a while." He took the envelope over to the far wall, where he pulled back a nondescript landscape done in oils to reveal the wall safe. He entered the combination, taking care to shield the safe with his body as he did so, and then took out the key to unlock it. He placed the envelope carefully at the back of the safe and locked it again before replacing the picture. "I imagine the situation will be less of an anti-climax for your father, once he's able to pay off his debt to the mayor," he said conversationally, stopping to straighten one of the other pictures. "And perhaps still less of an anti-climax for him once he finds out the terms of the contract you've just signed."

"Perhaps," she said quietly. And then, in a much brisker tone, she added, "And now I really should get to work. I don't want you to think that you've made a bad bargain!"

He didn't answer, but it appeared that she wasn't expecting a reply. She took herself off in the direction of the work room.

"I wouldn't worry about that, my dear," he said softly, too softly for her to hear, as he watched her walk away from him and then the curtain fall closed behind her. "I've never made a bad bargain yet."

~*~

The rest of the morning passed in a manner that Gold, somewhat to his surprise, could only describe as tranquil. Well, relatively so. Things certainly weren't quite as tranquil as they were when Gold was alone in his shop, but considering that he _wasn't_ alone in his shop… Yes, it was tranquil.

Except, of course, when Miss French chanced to smile at him as she passed by the counter on her way between the work room and the shop proper. She seemed to do that frequently. He supposed that she needed to check the card indexes.

And of course things became less than tranquil when an unsuspecting customer happened to enter the shop and find Miss French cross-legged on the floor by an open display case, making a note on her list. Gold had had to clear his throat, loudly, before Dr Whale dragged his gaze away from Miss French long enough to realise that Gold was also present.

Whale hadn't stayed long — not even long enough for Gold to find out if there was anything that he'd intended to buy.

And then there was the moment when Gold had looked up from… whatever paperwork he'd been looking through, only to find that the shop was, indeed, tranquil. Silent. Empty.

Things remained unrelentingly tranquil for almost fifteen minutes. Then Gold heard the back door opening and closing, a moment before Miss French appeared from behind the curtain, carrying a paper sack.

"I'm back," she said with a smile, depositing the bag on the counter in front of him.

"Oh, really?" said Gold, eyeing the bag dubiously. "I hadn't noticed that you'd gone."

She didn't acknowledge that with more than a fleeting sidelong glance from beneath her lashes. "I thought we could both do with some lunch, seeing as it's after one," she told him, busying herself opening the bag and removing two… objects, wrapped in wax paper.

"Lunch," Gold said flatly.

"Yes. You know, that meal that most people have around the middle of the day?"

"I believe I've heard of it."

"So, have some lunch," Miss French said. It wasn't at all an order, and yet a moment later, quite against his better judgement, Gold found himself unwrapping one of the paper bundles. The contents turned out to be, unsurprisingly, a sandwich. Gold's nose wrinkled at the smell of pickle, strong in the air. "Oh, ham, cheese and pickle on rye. That's mine. Sorry!" Miss French said, grabbing the sandwich right out from under his nose. "Try this one," she not-ordered, and pushed the other bundle towards him.

The second sandwich proved to be something of a disappointment. Bland white bread met his eyes when he unwrapped it. He lifted one corner and discovered that it was filled with some sort of light-ish meat, possibly chicken, and very little else. He would have much preferred the stronger flavours of the vintage cheese and rye bread, and particularly of the pickle, but Miss French was already biting into the other sandwich.

It would be churlish to refuse the sandwich, particularly after unwrapping it, so he picked up one half of it, and took a cautious bite. It was... not chicken, but turkey, and the taste was, surprisingly, not too bad. The simple combination of mild flavours reminded him of simpler times, somehow. Times so long in the past that the memory of them was so hazy as to be all but gone.

Gold put down the sandwich.

"Is it all right?" Miss French asked, and Gold realised that she'd been watching him.

"The sandwich is fine. Thank you," Gold said, but he left it where it was, sitting on the wrapper.

"I can go back and get you something else, if you'd like?"

"No, that won't be necessary," Gold began, just as his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and checked the display. "If you'll excuse me?" he said to Miss French, but he didn't wait for her to reply. He moved quickly through to the work room, and picked up the call.

"Gold," he said. "What do you have for me?" He listened without comment until his informant had finished speaking. "That's most interesting," he said at last. "Continue to keep an eye on her, and inform me of any other… interesting things she may do." He paused for a moment, and then added, "Yes, that will be all for now. Goodbye." He ended the call, and then he let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. It wasn't something he'd intended; a slightly superior smirk was all that the situation really called for. But when he considered the likely expression on Regina's face right now, it was just too good of a joke not to laugh.

Miss French was still eating her lunch when he returned from the work room. She didn't ask any questions about the call, or make any comment, oblique or otherwise. Gold was reluctantly impressed. Through such a small action — or non-action — she proved herself more intelligent than the vast majority of the inhabitants of the town.

Gold retrieved his abandoned sandwich, and ate with renewed enthusiasm.

"I didn't realise turkey could be so amusing," Miss French said, as Gold picked up the second half of his sandwich.

"I'm sorry?" Gold said, puzzled.

"You're smirking at it," she explained. "I can get you something else next time if you'd like."

"No, it's fine. Turkey's fine," Gold said. "It wasn't that. I was thinking about something else."

"Ah," Miss French said delicately, and returned her attention to her sandwich. As before, she chose not to pursue a subject that wasn't any of her business.

Perhaps that was why Gold found himself explaining, "Let's just say that I wouldn't be surprised if our dear mayor were to go on a baking spree sometime soon. I fear she may have suddenly found herself in possession of a surfeit of apples."

It wasn't a very enlightening explanation, but Miss French grinned. Clearly, she knew of the mayor's fondness for her apple tree, and was more than capable of joining the dots and guessing some of the story behind what Gold had said.

Perhaps this deal would turn out better than expected, Gold decided, and took another bite out of his sandwich.

~*~

The afternoon passed without incident. Miss French finished working on the contents of one display case and moved on to the next, interspersed with many trips back and forth to the work room. She seemed quite engrossed in her task, whenever Gold happened to look up from his own work.

Gold kept himself busy throughout the day, though by the time five o'clock rolled around he had no clear memory of exactly what he'd been doing over the last several hours. The cleaning cloth had featured in there somewhere, he was sure, as had volumes with columns of neatly-written figures in them, and even one or two customers. And of course Miss French had been there, every time he'd looked up. That part, he remembered all too vividly.

Miss French handled every item with care. She didn't bother him with stupid or obvious questions, but quietly got on with her work. If anything, she was perhaps a little _too_ quiet. More than once, he found himself half-hoping that she would interrupt his work with a question or even just some passing observation.

She didn't.

All in all, having another person working in the shop with him was proving to be less disruptive than he'd anticipated, if, perhaps, a trifle more distracting.

Eventually, Gold himself was the one to break the silence. Miss French was sitting by an open display case, holding a classic slime green coloured thermos in one hand while she made a note on her list with the other. She didn't look up as Gold approached, even though surely she'd heard his footsteps — and his cane. Gold stopped behind her, and cleared his throat.

"You should think about packing up soon," he said.

Miss French didn't look up, but continued scribbling furiously for a few seconds. She set down her pen on top of the notepad, and then placed both on the floor beside her. _Then_ she looked up at Gold.

"I've nearly finished listing all the items in this cabinet. I'd really like to get it done before I leave," she said.

"It's almost five o'clock," he felt obliged to point out. "You're not contracted to stay past five."

"Are you trying to stop me from doing more work?" she asked, and flashed him the mischievous grin with which he was quickly becoming familiar.

"I'm merely reminding you of the terms of the contract. Of course, it's in my interests for you to work as late as possible, and get the most out of the deal. I want the job done, and from what I've seen so far, you're thorough, careful and efficient." Gold looked down into the open display cabinet. Nothing was out of place; she'd put everything back exactly where she'd found it.

"You didn't expect all of that from me?"

"It seemed a trifle optimistic to expect all three qualities. All I really hoped for was that you would turn out to be reasonably accurate and not deathly slow, and that most of the items in my shop would escape unscathed," he admitted.

"Good to know I'm exceeding expectations so far, then," she said dryly, and glanced back down at her list.

"In this town, I've learnt not to expect too much of others," he said. "That way, I'm rarely disappointed," he added, his lip twisting in an unpleasant smirk.

"I disagree," Miss French said, looking up, her brows creased in a frown. "I've known lots of people with surprising talents, and more good qualities than you'd expect, once you get to know them. Most people are more than they appear to be, not less." She got to her feet, mainly, Gold felt certain, so that she could look him properly in the eye.

He glanced back down into the display cabinet again, perversely determined not to oblige her by meeting her gaze. "Oh, I'd agree with that last bit, but only because I think you'll find that there are plenty of hidden monsters out there, should you care to look," he said.

He'd heard the soft hiss of her indrawn breath, but when he looked up again Miss French was shaking her head. "Do you really have so little faith in people? Don't you think that anyone is capable of doing better, of being better, if their circumstances change?"

"I don't generally put much... _faith_ in faith, Miss French. I find that experience is by far a better guide."

"I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree. At least for now."

"I suppose we shall," Gold said. "For now."

Miss French turned away to place the thermos back in the display case, and Gold had the distinct feeling of having been dismissed. He stayed there, watching for a moment, as she bent down to retrieve her notepad, and then absently reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Her ear was small and perfectly formed, much like the rest of her.

Gold did turn away then. He didn't speak again until he was safely back behind the counter. "Finish the remaining contents of that display case if you wish," he said. "And then you should get along home."

She was in the act of taking something out of the cabinet, almost bent double as she reached for it. It was both a relief and a disappointment when she straightened and turned to look at him.

"Thank you," she said. "I won't be long, I promise." Her sudden smile was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

Gold retreated into the work room. He looked about as the curtain slipped back into place behind him. Everything in the room was just as he'd left it, save for one drawer in the bank of card indexes, which wasn't quite pushed in all the way. It sat there, just slightly ajar, just slightly out of place. Just slightly not as it had been.

Gold knew better than to even try to lie to himself this time, but he chose not to dwell on his reasons for… retreating. Or on the reasons for anything else he'd done today.

He limped across the room to take his work apron from its hook, and put it on over his suit. And then he sat down to work.

Miss French found him there some fifteen minutes later, seated at the desk as he brushed glue onto a broken carved wooden chess piece, a black rook.

"I've finished listing the items in that cabinet," she said from the doorway, "so I'm done for the day."

Gold picked up the broken top of the rook, a sad set of battlements without any castle to defend, and fitted it carefully into place on the jagged base. Only then did he set the piece down on the square of absorbent paper in front of him, and look up at Miss French. He watched as she crossed the room, and took her jacket from the dilapidated coat rack lurking in the corner.

"I'll expect you at eight on Monday morning," he said, still watching as she slipped her arms into the sleeves and pulled on the jacket, and then when she bent to open the nearby cupboard and retrieve her bag.

"Bright and early," she agreed, standing back up and slipping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "I'll leave you to your broken castle, then."

"This piece is more correctly known as a rook," Gold told her, faintly disappointed that the explanation was required.

"Yes, I know," she said. She flashed him a fleeting, mischievous grin, so quick this time that he might have imagined it, before turning away.

He sat there and watched her walk away from him.

She stopped in front of the curtain. "Good night, Mr Gold," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"Good night," he said.

And then she was gone, with only the slow swish of the curtain falling back into place to show that she was ever there. A moment later, he heard the shop bell tinkle as the front door opened and closed, and then all was quiet.

Eventually, Gold got up. He moved slowly across the room, dragging his desk chair along behind him. He stopped in front of the china cabinet by the back wall, sitting down in the chair so that he could reach the doors at the very bottom. He took the tea things out one by one, placing them on the nearby side table. He should find a new place to store them, somewhere more convenient to reach. He'd been meaning to do that for too long. For longer than he could remember, he realised, frowning.

Alternately, he could leave the tea things where they were and simply rely on Miss French to deal with them in future. Preparing the tea was, after all, one of her official duties now. Bending down to get the tea things was all part of that.

Gold filled the kettle and left it to heat on the stovetop. He went back to work on the broken chess set while he waited for the water to boil. It seemed to take forever, and then even longer than forever to cool sufficiently that it could safely be poured onto the dry leaves and left to steep.

After about an aeon, the tea was ready. Gold poured a single cup of tea, and took it back to the desk with him. He sipped his tea as he worked his way through the remaining chess pieces. It tasted just the same as it always did, just the way he liked it.

The teacup was still half full of cold tea when Gold finished repairing the last chess piece, the white queen, and left it on the desk to dry, alongside all the others.

Gold got up, and took the tea things through to the bathroom. He poured the contents of the cup down the sink, emptied the pot of used leaves and remaining tea, and rinsed out both.

It took only a moment to lock the back door, and barely longer to secure everything in need of being secured before he turned the sign to 'closed' and left for the day. Gold turned off the lights, leaving his shop in darkness. He closed the door behind him, pausing briefly to press a hand back against it to make sure that the lock was securely in place, and stepped out onto the street.

He set off not towards his house, but in quite the opposite direction. He hadn't gone too far when a rather interesting sight met his eyes for the second time that day: Miss Swan, striding along the street with Henry Mills at her side, the boy almost breaking into a run to keep up. The two of them were deep in conversation and, as before, oblivious of Gold's presence on the other side of the road.

Gold smiled to himself, and went on his way.

He found the mayor in her garden, right where he'd expected her to be, tending her beloved apple tree. The tree was more than a little the worse for wear thanks to Miss Swan's attentions with the chainsaw earlier in the day. He was pleased, but not surprised, to note that his informant had not exaggerated the case.

"What a mess!" he said by way of greeting, as he made his way across the grass towards her.

"Not for long," she said, brushing away some sawdust from the main wound on the trunk. She looked up as he stopped in front of her. "What can I do for you, Mr Gold?"

"I was just in the neighbourhood, thought I'd pop by. Lovely to see you in such high spirits," he said, embarking on a leisurely turn about the apple tree to properly inspect the damage.

Regina laughed, short but self-satisfied. "Well, it's been a good day. I've just rid the town of an unwanted nuisance."

Gold paused in his walk, on the far side of the apple tree. "Emma Swan. Really?"

"Yes." The mayor had her back to him and he couldn't see her face, but her tone told him everything he needed to know. "I imagine she's halfway to Boston by now," she added, turning to face him. And yes, there it was, written on her face. She'd never learnt to hide what she was feeling, never learnt subtlety — not that Gold had any cause to complain about that particular deficiency in her character.

Gold smirked, just enough for her to notice, and plucked an apple from a low-hanging branch. "Oh, I wouldn't bet on that," he said, coming out from behind the tree. "I've just seen her strolling down the main street with your boy. Thick as thieves, they looked."

"What?" The mayor asked incredulously.

Gold smirked down at the ground, but the smile faded from his face as he looked up at her again. "Perhaps you should have come to me. Miss Swan is a problem you _can_ fix. I'm only too happy to help. For a price, of course.

Regina laughed, humourlessly. "I'm not in the business of making deals with you any more," she said, turning away from him to examine the tree up close.

"To which deal are you referring?" Gold asked, but of course he knew. There had been only one deal that really mattered, at least to Regina.

"You know what deal," she said, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Oh, right. Yeah. The boy I procured for you. _Henry_."

Regina didn't say anything to that, and Gold didn't bother to fill the silence with words of his own. He let it lengthen and stretch, all the time watching the tense line of the mayor's shoulders, and waited.

"Did you want her to come to town?" the mayor asked, whirling around suddenly. "You wanted all this to happen, didn't you? Your finding Henry wasn't an accident, was it?" She stepped closer with each question.

Gold stood his ground, unflinching and unblinking. "Whatever do you mean?" he asked quietly.

"Where did you get him?" She was staring him right in the face now. "Do you know something?" she asked, and there was something different colouring her voice now. Something more than simple anger and paranoid suspicion.

Gold still didn't move. "I've no idea what you're implying."

"I think you do. Who is this woman, his mother, this Emma Swan?"

"As you say, she's his mother. Who else would she be?" Gold asked in turn, raising his eyebrows a little but otherwise unmoving.

"Tell me what you know about her," Regina demanded.

"I? I know little more of Miss Swan than can be gleaned from this morning's newspaper. It was a closed adoption, if you'll recall. I'd never heard her name before last night."

"Yes, it was a closed adoption. That much is true," Regina said, in a way that strongly implied that she didn't believe anything else he'd just said. Clearly, the mayor knew something about Emma Swan, or at least suspected it, and for some reason she also suspected that Gold knew more about the matter than she did. Interesting. He would need to dig deeper into Miss Swan's history before he could allow this line of conversation to continue.

"Fascinating though this little talk has been, I'm afraid I must put an end to it," Gold said. "If you'll please excuse me now?" He'd learnt long ago to be meticulously polite around Regina. There was absolutely nothing she hated more from him than a "please" or "thank you". Of course, he somewhat spoiled the effect this time by leaning in close and biting insolently into the apple he'd picked off her tree, before he strolled off across the lawn.

Regina didn't try to stop him, and she didn't say another word, not even when he tossed the apple over his shoulder on his way out of the garden gate.

There was a little more activity than usual for this time of night when Gold stepped back out onto the street. It was a Friday night; he supposed that was the explanation for the presence of the couples and small groups clearly intent on a night out on the town — such as it was — in addition to the usual few solitary figures hurrying home late from the office.

Gold stopped at Granny's diner. He didn't go there often, except at the end of the month to collect the rent, but it was as good a place as any to obtain a light meal. Gold had missed dinner entirely last night, and he knew better than to let that become a habit. Besides, when it came to dining out, Storybrooke's options were rather severely limited, which meant that Emma Swan's were, too. Of those options, the diner seemed by far the most likely.

There were several other customers already there when Gold arrived, though Miss Swan was not among them. A deathly hush came over the place almost as soon as he set foot over the threshold. He nodded to Mrs Lucas, who shot him a less than completely pleased look from her place behind the counter, and took a seat some way back from the door. The granddaughter scampered over with a plastic-covered single page menu, and Gold sat back in his seat to peruse it. After a moment, the buzz of conversation started up around him again, first with cautious whispers before graduating to something approaching normal noise levels for such an establishment.

Gold wasted no time in ordering a BLT and a cup of coffee. He chose those items on the basis that even this place couldn't mess them up too badly, and did so with haste on the basis that at least then the girl would stop lurking at his elbow, waiting for him to order.

He didn't have to wait long for the coffee to arrive, but he was drumming his fingers on the table top by the time the granddaughter-waitress hurried over with it. He took a sip, and almost burnt his tongue. It was hot and bitter, made with neither cream nor sugar, just as he preferred. And yet he made a face, and set it down on the table. He looked around the diner, encountering hastily averted glances almost everywhere he looked, but seeing no sign of Miss Swan. He scowled down at his coffee, and considered getting up and leaving without waiting for the sandwich.

"Mr Gold?"

He started in surprise at being addressed, almost knocking his cup of coffee right over, and looked up straight into the so-blue eyes of Miss French. He blinked, speechless — quite as much because of the way Miss French looked as at the fact that she was there at all. She'd dispensed with the jeans and t-shirt she'd been wearing earlier. Instead, beneath her jacket she wore a dress, black and quite short and rather… well-fitted, and her legs were clad in equally black tights, what little he could see of them with the table in the way. Her hair was no longer caught up in a ponytail, but loosely pulled back away from her face, and pinned in place somehow at the back of her head, from where it fell in shining tresses over her shoulders and down her back.

She looked… Miss French looked…

"Good evening," Miss French added, when he still said nothing.

"Good evening, Miss French," Gold said, finding his voice.

She looked _older_ , he thought. That was it. Properly grown up. Perhaps it was the plunging neckline of the tight little black dress that clinched it, though his gaze didn't linger there. He made sure to keep his eyes very firmly on her face, his hand curling tightly around the handle of his cane.

"I don't remember seeing you in here before. Do you come here often?" she continued pleasantly.

"No, not often," Gold said, shaking his head. "And you?" he added several seconds later, all too aware that it sounded exactly like the afterthought that it was. "Do you come here often?"

"Sometimes. I'm here to meet a friend right now. Do you mind if I take a seat while I wait?" she asked, but she was already pulling the chair out before she'd finished the question.

"Be my guest," Gold said, with gentle irony.

"Thanks," she said, setting her sparkly black evening purse and her cell phone down on the table in front of her, and then, before he had time to get a word in, she added, "Is that coffee you're drinking? Not tea?"

Gold gave her a look. "How many people in this town do _you_ trust to make a cup of tea for you?" he asked in reply.

"Several," Miss French said, but she smiled as she said it, in a way that made Gold think that 'several' should be interpreted as 'less than two'. She was wearing a deep red lipstick, which made her smile seem wider and lusher than ever. And there was more make-up around her eyes, lending them a dramatic dark outline that only served to make them appear even bluer than Gold knew them to be.

He most certainly did not allow his eyes to stray any lower, but the fact of having to remind himself not to look was more than a little unsettling. It wasn't something that he generally had to worry about, not even with the waitress who made a habit of sashaying half-dressed around the diner. Being all but immune to the more obvious of female so-called charms was not something he exactly prided himself on, but it certainly came in useful in the course of his many business dealings.

Across from him, Miss French eased her jacket off her bare shoulders, and laid it carefully on the vacant seat beside her.

Gold gulped down a mouthful of coffee.

Yes, she definitely looked properly grown up.

It occurred to him then to wonder about the identity of the 'friend' for whom she was waiting. Miss French was dressed for a night out; the sort of night that usually included drinks, and dinner, and probably even dancing. It was the sort of night that might lead to all sorts of… outcomes, depending on the nature of the company she was keeping.

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with his sandwich. She swooped down with alarming speed to place the plate before Gold, a feat that she achieved with surprising accuracy. He pretended not to notice the speaking look that the girl directed Miss French's way as she straightened back up.

"Thank you, dear," he said.

"Can I get _you_ anything, Bella?" the waitress asked, in what she doubtless thought was a subtle manner.

"No, nothing for me, thanks, Ruby," Miss French said, her eyes flickering to the waitress's face and then quickly away.

"If you're sure…"

"I am. I'm _fine_ ," Miss French said, and for the very first time Gold heard a hint of real irritation in her voice.

Ruby frowned so fiercely at Miss French that it almost qualified as a glare. "Just let me know if you happen to change your mind," she said, somehow managing to emphasise every word, before she darted off to another table.

"I see you didn't order turkey this time," Miss French said, as soon as they were alone again.

"No, I'll leave that to you," Gold told her.

They shared a look across the table, a look that was almost a smile.

Miss French's phone lit up, vibrating urgently against her evening bag and making the dark beading sparkle like small gems. She snatched up the phone, answering the call before Gold could make out the name of the caller on the display. Not that he was prying, of course. He sipped his coffee and looked past her, affecting a look of bored disinterest.

"Hello," Miss French said into the phone. She listened for a moment. "Yes, I'm at the diner. Where are- " She paused to listen for another moment. "Oh, okay. I'll meet you there in… say ten minutes?" She nodded slowly as she listened some more. "Yes, I'm looking forward to it. See you soon!" She was smiling as she ended the call and placed the phone back down on the table in front of her.

"I've got to go," she said, getting to her feet and picking up her jacket. "My friend's running late, so we're going to meet elsewhere."

"That seems a trifle inconsiderate," Gold said carefully, biting back all the other words that hovered on the tip of his tongue.

Miss French shrugged. "It just worked out that way tonight. It's not a big deal."

"I trust it's not too far?" he asked. He wasn't prying. Not all the streets of Storybrooke were well lit, and they were certainly no place for a young woman to be wandering about by herself at night.

"No, it's not far," Miss French replied, but she did not elaborate. She slipped her jacket back on, doing it up properly at the front this time until there was almost nothing left to be seen of the dress beneath. However, the same could not be said for her black-clad legs. They'd make quite the silhouette in the semi-darkness of the street. It wasn't a reassuring thought.

Gold almost offered her a lift to wherever she was going, but of course he hadn't brought his car with him today. It was still where he'd left it last night, sitting uselessly on the street outside his house. "I’ll walk you there, if you'd like," he found himself saying. "Just to make sure you get there without any problems."

"There's no need, but thank you," Miss French said. "I know the way. Very well."

"As you wish," he said, inclining his head as he tried and failed to stop himself wondering _where_ and _who_.

Miss French picked up her phone and slipped it inside her purse. "I'd better be going, then," she said. "Good night, Mr Gold. Again."

"Good night, Miss French," he said.

He watched her walk away from him, right until she made it across the room and out the door.

 _He could follow her._ Gold couldn't prevent the thought from occurring to him, even though he knew the very idea to be ridiculous. He _couldn't_ follow her. What would he say, if she noticed him — as she undoubtedly would? He had no idea.

He made himself eat the sandwich, mainly just to force himself to stay where he was until Miss French was long gone. It was tasteless and dry, and very nearly stuck in his throat as he choked it down, mouthful by unappetising mouthful.

When at last he finished the sandwich, he didn't wait for the cheque, but left a twenty on the table that would be enough to cover things — more than enough, though Ruby the waitress hardly deserved a tip at all. It was a relief simply to allow himself to get up and get out of there.

He didn't enjoy the walk home. The distance seemed even longer than it had this morning, in the dark after a long day of standing about the shop, and his leg did not thank him for the work-out. Before he was halfway back to his house, the rain that had been threatening all day finally resolved into a light, unpleasant drizzle.

Gold's clothing was on the uncomfortable side of damp by the time he turned the corner into his street. His trousers caught and rubbed unpleasantly against his skin, and his shoes were starting to make an audible 'squelch' with each step that he took. He noted the way in which the raindrops caught the light from the street lamp on the corner as he passed, creating an ethereal visual effect that some might be tempted to describe as magical. Gold wasn't tempted to do so. All the sight confirmed for him was that the rain was coming down heavier than before. He ran his fingers through his fast-becoming-bedraggled hair, and then grimaced as a tiny rivulet streaked down the side of his neck, cold and wet against his skin. The miserable evening exactly suited his mood.

He stumped on down the street until he arrived at his gate. He fumbled with the latch in the near darkness, much as he had last night, when Miss French had stopped him to make her request. That had been not quite twenty-four hours ago.

Gold slammed the gate shut behind him with a loud clang. He hoped it startled the neighbours.

He made his way along the path and up the front steps to his door. Inside, all was dark, and still and quiet; just what he preferred to come home to at the end of a long day. Today, though, for the first time, it seemed a trifle _too_ dark. His fingers found the switch by the door and flooded the hallway with light.

He went up the stairs as quickly as he was able — not quickly enough — and divested himself of his sodden clothing. He hurled everything into the clothes hamper — everything save his shoes, which he pulled off and dropped haphazardly on the floor beside the bed.

Naked, he limped across the hallway to the bathroom and into the shower cubicle. He turned on the water and leaned against the wall, taking some of the weight off his bad leg. He let out a sigh and stuck his head directly beneath the spray, letting the hot water plaster his hair against his skull. That, at least, was a slight improvement.

After a long moment, he took the cake of plain, unscented soap from the holder. He rubbed it along his arms and torso, working up a brisk lather across his chest. And then his hands moved lower. The lather he worked up there was decidedly more perfunctory, and then his hands moved up his body again. All the while, he carefully thought about nothing at all.

After only a few minutes, he got out of the shower. He should have felt better, or at least warmer, afterwards.

He towelled himself dry, changed into a pair of charcoal grey silk pyjamas, and put on his dressing gown. And then he went back downstairs.

It was habit that took him to the kitchen, to the cupboard where he kept the tea things.

It was something other than habit that had him shutting the cupboard door again before he'd taken out the teapot, much less chosen which variety of tea to drink tonight.

He moved through to his study. There were papers on the desk there, awaiting his attention, but Gold stopped at the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large single malt Scotch before he ever got as far as the desk. He lowered himself into the Queen Anne Chesterfield in the corner, stretching out his right leg in front of him and letting his head fall back against the high wing back of the chair, and took a long swallow of Scotch. It was smooth going down, leaving the slightest burn in the mouth. It left Gold feeling unnaturally calm as he at last allowed himself to consider… matters.

He didn't know what had come over him today. He didn't know what to do about it.

 _There_ were two sentences he never would have thought he'd ever need to apply to himself. He'd always firmly believed that uncertainty and indecision were for other people. And as for the other…

She could be anywhere, with anyone, right now. Gold's right hand closed tightly around the tumbler of Scotch; his left curled into a fist. He didn't even have her phone number, to check if she were all right. Someone else did, though. Someone who'd called her at the diner, and made her smile. Someone who'd known her longer than twenty-four hours. Someone who knew where she was right now, because that someone was there too.

Gold didn't get much further with that particular line of thought, not in any productive way, but he stayed where he was until the tumbler stood empty on the occasional table beside his chair. Eventually, he looked over at the desk. The papers were still lying there in a neat pile, awaiting his attention.

Gold got up and went upstairs to bed.

Sleep did not come.

He lay there a long time, shifting from side to side, finding it impossible to get comfortable. He stared up at the ceiling, face-planted against the pillow, rolled onto his side, and even pulled the duvet up over his head for a while, before going back to staring up at the ceiling.

Sleep did not come.

Gold pressed the button on the top of his alarm clock to turn on the back light and illuminate the dial. It was almost midnight; he'd been in bed, and not asleep, for hours. He lay back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling some more, as though considering his next move — but he'd always known what it was going to be, since before he'd even gone to bed. Since before he'd even made it home.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and found his cock. He was already hard; he had been for some time. He closed his eyes, and at last let himself think about the only thing he wanted to think about, while his hand moved urgently along the length of his cock.

It only took three strokes of his hand, and he was lost. His hips arched up and he let out an anguished cry as his whole body twisted into it, spilling himself all over his hand and his night clothes, and onto the sheet. He lay there afterwards, panting and sticky and not inclined to move, even to clean himself up.

Sleep came at last, a little after he did.

For a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Nym for looking over this monster.


	5. Chapter 5

Gold did not sleep well on Friday night. She filled his dreams, haunted them, and he could still see her when he woke to darkness after a fitful sleep.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He was restless, still, and he was hard. Again. So much so that his cock tented the sheet. Morning wood wasn't something with which he generally much concerned himself. It happened, and, after a short time, it dissipated. All he needed to do was get up, start his day, and that would soon be that.

His hand slipped under the covers. His cock was a firm, warm weight against his palm. In another time, another place, maybe it could have been her hand holding him like that, with those long, slender fingers he'd clasped yesterday as they shook hands. His breath caught, and after a moment he let it out again, slowly. His hand started moving in long, slow strokes, catching the rhythm as he breathed in and out. Slowly, slowly, that was the key. It was the first step back towards self-control.

His left hand brushed against one of the pillows that had somehow navigated partway down the bed during the night. As he gripped the firm, rounded edge of it in the darkness, his mind strayed back to last night, and the sight of _her_ , in that dress that emphasised every single curve she possessed. He could have reached out and touched those curves, right there in the diner. There would have been hell to pay afterwards, for she wouldn't have welcomed it. She would have been shocked, those beautiful blue eyes of hers widening in dismay. Maybe she would have been frozen there, with his hand cupping her breast, just for a moment before she remembered to push him away.

It would have been worth it, too, just to have the memory of it, of the feel of her under his hands, if not for the fact that she would never have come back to work in the shop after that. She would never have come anywhere near him again. And that… No, he didn't want that.

If he'd touched her, maybe his fingers would have brushed against her nipple. Maybe he would have felt it go hard beneath the fabric of her dress, an involuntary reaction in the seconds before her outrage kicked in.

Gold let out a shuddering breath and gripped his cock, hard. Slowly, slowly. He must take things slowly.

Maybe her breath would have caught. Maybe she would have looked at him with something other than disgust. Maybe, he could have persuaded her to let him accompany her to wherever she was going. Maybe they could have ended up somewhere dark, somewhere private. And maybe she would have dropped to her knees and-

Gold's hand tightened around his cock, hard enough to hurt.

He didn't want to think of her like that. It should have been the embodiment of everything that he wanted from her, here, in the privacy of his home and his bed, where she could never see and never know. It should have been, but it wasn't.

She wouldn't kneel. She wouldn't abase herself before him, and he'd never want that from her. Her, and only her. No, she'd look him right in the eye, bold and fearless before him as only she could be, and she'd take him in hand. She wouldn't look down to see the effect her touch was having on him; she wouldn't look away at all. She'd keep her eyes fixed on his as her hand alternately stroked and teased and gripped him, almost too much and very nearly too hard, but somehow exactly what he wanted and wholly perfect. And he'd thrust up into her grasp and bite his lip to keep from making the sounds he so wanted to make. And she'd move closer and brush one finger gently across his lips, again and then again, until he was trembling and groaning and so ready that he could barely keep a coherent thought in his head beyond wanting and needing and-

She pushed right up against him, and pressed her lips to his, her mouth a warm, wet invitation that he couldn't resist. His mouth opened on a long, silent cry as he tensed, hard, so very hard, until the tension shattered, and his cock was jerking in his hand, hard against his belly, as pleasure took him.

Afterwards, once his heart had stopped beating frantically in his ears and his breathing had returned to something like normal, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn't in any way a smooth or graceful movement, but it got him halfway out of bed. He fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp before grabbing hold of his cane, which he'd left propped up against the bedside table.

He stood there for a moment, not quite steadily, feeling somewhat less than pristine. He left the bedclothes in a tumbled heap – the girl would be in to change them today, since it was Saturday – and limped out into the shadowy hallway, and across to the bathroom.

He slipped out of his pyjamas and turned the shower on full blast; the spray felt like hot needles pricking at his skin. When he emerged, a quick glance in the mirror told him that he was flushed pink all over, as though his skin had been rubbed raw by the water, and yet he still didn't feel quite clean. He kept his gaze away from the mirror as he towelled himself dry.

He had to look in the mirror while he shaved, but he focused firmly on the path that the razor made through the soapy lather along the line of his jaw and did not meet his own eyes.

It was still dark when he returned to the bedroom. He opened the wardrobe door and considered the contents. He usually put on his dressing gown over his pyjamas when he went down to breakfast.

When Gold descended the stairs ten minutes later, the suit he was wearing was almost as dark as the sky outside, and the shirt beneath it was, if anything, darker. The tie and matching pocket square he'd chosen were of a deep grey silk that glimmered dully as it caught the light.

As he entered the kitchen, he eyed the kettle, still sitting on the stovetop from yesterday morning. He left it where it was and instead turned on the espresso machine and set about making coffee. A few minutes later, he carried a macchiato – strong, dark and bitter, just the way he liked it, and, today, just the way he felt – through to the study, and sat down to work his way through the pile of papers still waiting on the desk.

Dawn had broken, and been and gone, and pale fingers of light were creeping in around the edges of the blind when at last Gold placed the final letter in his out tray. The cup of coffee sat at his elbow, dark and stone cold, and almost completely untouched.

Gold usually allowed himself the indulgence of the shortest of lie-ins of a Saturday morning, which, in turn, meant that he left for the shop a little later than he did on weekdays. This morning was the exception that proved the rule. At least, that's what he told himself when he caught himself looking around the study in search of things to do to _pass the time_ until it was time to leave. Gold had never needed to look for a way to pass time in his life, and he certainly wasn't about to start now. He left the coffee cup and saucer in the sink, and took himself swiftly out the front door and down the path to his car. He was in no mood to walk to the shop today.

It was only a short drive between Gold's house and the centre of town, but then, just about everywhere in Storybrooke was only a short drive from the centre of town. This morning, Gold didn't follow the usual, most direct route. There was no hurry, since he'd left the house so early. He bypassed Main Street completely, and drove on to the other side of town, to the very edge of the central business district, such as it was. He saw the van first, parked on the street outside the front door: the signs on both proclaimed that this was, indeed, Game of Thorns, the plant nursery and florist.

Gold pulled over to the side of the road, and turned off the engine. And then he sat there and waited, though he couldn't have said exactly what he was expecting to see. The streetscape remained entirely unchanged for the next five minutes; it wasn't disturbed by so much as a passing car. Then, the front door of the house next to Game of Thorns opened, and a tall, heavily built middle-aged man emerged, and made straight for the florist van. Gold recognised the man at once: Moe French. He watched as French got into the van and drove away. Once French was gone, Gold turned his attention to the house. It was quite old: two storey, wood, like most of the houses on this side of town, and painted a rather unattractive shade of green. The house had not been well looked after in recent times, that much was clear. The paint was peeling in places, and the small front garden was unkempt and overgrown, and hardly any sort of fitting advertisement for the services of the occupant.

Occupants.

There was no sign of life inside the house: not a light on in any room that could be seen from the street, not so much as the twitch of a curtain. If there was anyone else at home, that person had clearly not yet arisen. Either that, or that person had not yet arrived home from wherever they'd been the night before.

Gold's hands clenched on the steering wheel. He should be on his way. The morning was fast getting on, and there were numerous matters awaiting his attention at the shop, and elsewhere in town.

Another five minutes passed before he turned the key in the ignition and at last drove off.

His usual parking space, on the street behind the shop, was waiting for him as he drew up by the kerb. This was no surprise: the parking space was always vacant, no matter what time of day he arrived at the shop. There was no sign or anything else to indicate that this was a reserved parking space, but everyone in Storybrooke knew better than to park here. He got out of the car and made his way unhurriedly along the street.

His eyes went straight to the entrance to his shop as soon as he turned the corner into Main Street. There was no one waiting outside – but then, why would there be? The shop didn't officially open its doors until ten, most days, and he never had to worry about customers queuing up outside at any time of day. And, quite apart from customers, Miss French was only contracted to work at the shop from Mondays to Fridays, so she certainly wouldn't be waiting there.

He couldn't quite stop himself from wondering where she was right now.

He unlocked the front door and pushed it open with slightly more than the necessary force. He closed the door behind him and… stopped, instantly on the alert. Something felt wrong. He cast a glance around the room, but nothing seemed to be out of place. He took a closer look then, going so far as to investigate each and every display with care. Still nothing. The shop looked just as it had when he'd locked up last night, just as it _always_ had. Everything was in place, and yet Gold couldn't shake the sense of uneasiness. It felt as if the whole shop had somehow been moved a step to the right when he wasn't looking. Everything was there, but everything felt slightly off. It was unsettling, and Gold wasn't used to feeling unsettled. He didn't care for it.

He made his way through the shop to the workroom. Here, as in the main part of the shop, everything looked as it should but felt as if it wasn't. Gold shook his head, impatient with himself. The feeling did not subside, so Gold decided to ignore it.

The chess pieces were waiting on the desk where he'd left them last night. He picked up one of the black rooks: the glue was dry now, hard and bulging out slightly from the wood. He took out a piece of sandpaper and rubbed it carefully over the glue, until there was only a smooth line where the bulges had been. He put the rook back down and had just started sandpapering the black queen – which bore a slight but satisfying resemblance to the mayor – when his phone rang.

"Gold," he said, and then listened intently for a moment. "That's most interesting. Who would have thought it?" he tutted, shaking his head slowly. "Yes, continue to keep an eye on this… situation. I'll let you know if any change is required."

Gold gazed down at the phone for a long moment before he returned it to his pocket. Wheels were being set in motion, wheels with his hand pushing them along, starting and stopping according to his whim. And if the mayor happened to be under the mistaken impression that the guiding hand was hers, well, that was all to the good.

He smiled briefly, coldly. At last the day was properly underway.

~*~

The rest of the morning passed, if not quickly, at least… Well, it passed. Before he did anything else, Gold went for a short stroll along Main Street, which turned into a more time-consuming circuit of the centre of town. He soon spied what he was looking for: a small but distinctively yellow car, parked not far from the diner.

Satisfied, for the moment, that Miss Swan was still in Storybrooke, Gold was all too aware that he needed to get back to the shop. And yet, his gaze lingered on the front door of the diner.

What sort of man arranged to meet a woman – a _lady_ – in such an unprepossessing establishment, and then, all but standing her up, insisted that she should drop everything and come running the moment he called?

She hadn't hesitated before agreeing to the outrageous demand, though.

Gold ground his cane into the pavement, so hard that the end of it became lodged in a large crack between two slabs of concrete. It required several vigorous tugs before at last it came free, so suddenly that Gold staggered backwards and very nearly fell.

He regained his balance quickly, but it took longer to regain his composure. He scowled fiercely at Doctor Hopper – who had chosen exactly the wrong moment to be walking past and stepped up his speed after one look at Gold – and then forced himself to stare down at the pavement until the impassive mask that served as armour and weapon both was back in place.

Gold walked back to the shop at his customary pace, not slowing down for anything but making sure not to hurry, either. He closed the door behind him gently and carefully, so carefully that the little bell hardly made a sound. The interior of the shop still felt slightly unsettling. Gold refused to dwell on it, and simply returned to his workroom and the chess pieces that awaited his attention there.

He picked up the black queen and returned to the job of sandpapering it. It was a methodical task that required focus but not much in the way of applied thought. Therefore, Gold chose to spend most of the time thinking about Miss Swan and considering how best to use her to advantage. Storybrooke was much like a chessboard, at least from Gold's perspective, and Miss Swan could prove to be a most valuable piece. Time would tell which side of the board she belonged to, though that didn't worry Gold unduly. He had the power to take control of both sides of the board should the need arise. Maybe not forever, but at least for long enough to accomplish whatever might need accomplishing for him to retain the upper hand. The mayor would underestimate him at her peril.

He rather enjoyed the idea of her in peril.

Gold worked his way through the other chess pieces and then put them away in their wooden box. That done, he left the workroom and went out to flip the sign on the door to "open". The day had officially begun.

He removed some paperwork and one of his ledgers – one of the official ones – from the wall safe, and took up his usual position behind the counter. Entering figures into a ledger was something that he did most days. Precious few customers crossed his threshold on any day, while there were always accounts to be reckoned. It should be a peaceful task, a satisfying task, and it usually was, yet Gold couldn't seem to concentrate on it today. He kept glancing up from the ledger and looking around the room. The shop still felt not quite right, as though everything was very slightly off-balance, and now that Gold was out here behind the counter the feeling was harder to ignore. The shop was empty and quiet, save for the faint scratch of Gold's fountain pen against the paper and the steady ticking of the large collection of clocks behind him, just as it was most days for most of the time. And yet today the emptiness was somehow too empty, the quiet somehow too quiet.

Gold snorted softly and laid his pen down. The morning was getting on. It must be time for tea, surely?

He'd left the tea things drying by the sink at the back last night. He still hadn't decided whether to continue storing them in the bottom of the china cabinet in the workroom. He made an impatient noise. That uncharacteristic indecision was at one with everything else that felt ever so slightly off today.

He would decide where to put the damned things after he'd had his tea and done the dishes.

He picked up the teapot and the teacup he always used, but he didn't walk away immediately. The second teacup, the one with the somewhat garish pattern of pink roses, still sat on the drying rack beside the sink. There'd never been more than one cup sitting by that sink before, not in all the years – however many there might have been – that he'd been making tea for himself here at the shop.

Gold put down the teapot and teacup. The teapot's lid rattled as it hit the drying rack. He went back out to the counter without making tea.

He'd been back at work at his ledger for several minutes, though he couldn't have said what he'd recorded in it in that time, when a car pulled up outside. Gold very deliberately did not look up from his paperwork. It never hurt to make it clear to potential customers from the outset that any transaction would be carried out on his terms and at his convenience.

The bell tinkled as the door opened. One second, two, and then, impassive mask in place, Gold would lay his pen down carefully and slowly look u-

"Good morning!" Miss French's voice said cheerily.

Gold's head jerked up. Miss French had closed the door behind her and was advancing on him at speed. She looked nothing like she had when he'd last seen her yesterday evening. Her hair was once again tied back in a ponytail, and she was dressed in a plain navy skirt paired with a modestly cut white blouse. She carried a small green backpack in one hand.

"I hope I'm not too late for tea," she said as she reached him, and set the backpack down on the floor in front of the counter.

He knew that he was gaping at her, but he couldn't seem to close his mouth. He couldn't seem to make his expression settle back into its usual impassive lines, either. His face felt lighter, somehow. It felt like it might be the kind of face that could summon up a proper smile, in the right circumstances.

It was just possible that these might be the right circumstances.

"I'll get started then, shall I?" Miss French asked, looking down as she shrugged out of her jacket and then slung it over her arm.

Gold went still: it was the same jacket she'd been wearing last night. It was plain and dark, but of a more elegant cut than suited the clothes she was wearing – too elegant to wear out on a simple daytime errand. Unless, of course, it was the only jacket available to her because she hadn't been at home when she got dressed this morning.

Gold no longer felt in any danger of smiling.

"Unless you've already had tea without me?" Miss French said. "Mr Gold?"

"What are you talking about?" Gold managed at last. It wasn't what he wanted to say. He didn't know precisely what he wanted to say, but it wasn't that.

"The contract," Miss French said slowly. "You remember? The clause you put in there about making tea for you every morning?"

"Indeed. However, you're only contracted to work from Monday to Friday."

"But the shop is open on Saturdays as well," Miss French pointed out. "You're well-known for sticking to the letter of your contracts, so of course I'm here to make tea today."

"Couldn't risk it, could you, dear?" he sneered, leaning in close across the counter and biting out the words one by one.

Miss French recoiled, and dropped her jacket. It had been quite some time – perhaps even weeks – since he'd last elicited such obvious physical distaste from a client. It was exactly the sort of reaction that he thrived on. Gold smiled, a shark's smile. There was no humour in it, no warmth – but none of the expected satisfaction, either. Somehow, it left him feeling faintly ill.

"Well get on with it!" he snapped, just as Miss French said, "It's not-"

Miss French swallowed hard, but her voice was firm and steady when she spoke again: "Fine. I'll have the tea ready as soon as possible."

She picked up her jacket, and the backpack, and headed for the door to the workroom.

"The teapot and cups are by the sink at the back," Gold muttered as she went past. He wasn't sure why he said it. He should have just let her waste time looking for them.

"Thanks," Miss French said quietly.

A few seconds later the curtain swished back into place behind her, and Gold was alone again.

It quickly proved impossible to concentrate on the ledger. Even the smallest sound from beyond the curtain made him look up and strain his ears as he tried to work out exactly what she was doing back there.

He could always just go into the workroom and see for himself, of course.

Gold slammed the ledger shut and gathered up the papers from the counter. He had just shut them away in the wall safe and was putting the picture back in place over the front of it when a car drew up outside the shop. He did look this time, but only for a moment – just long enough to determine that it wasn't the mayor's car.

He contrived to be standing by the far counter, casually polishing a carriage clock, by the time the shop door opened. He looked up, and greeted the latest arrival with a cool smile.

"Miss Blanchard. May I help you?"

"M-Mr Gold," she stammered, in a way that Gold might easily have predicted, had he cared enough to consider her response in advance. "I was looking for Bella – Bella French. I thought I'd find her here."

Now _that_ little rider Gold would not have predicted. He didn't answer immediately, but simply stared at her, unblinking, for one heartbeat, two, while Mary Margaret Blanchard darted nervous glances here and there like the startled rabbit that she was.

"Miss French is here," he said, "but she's rather busy at the moment."

"I just need to give her something. It won't take more than a moment," Miss Blanchard assured him, biting a nail.

That, if anything, decided Gold. He didn't intend to stand around and wait while watching _Miss Blanchard_ stand around and wait and possibly attempt nervous small talk while doing _that_ to her nails.

"Please come with me, and make sure not to waste any more of Miss French's work time than absolutely necessary," he said curtly, and turned to lead the way to the workroom. He didn't check to see if she was following; he didn't need to.

They found Miss French sitting at Gold's work desk, teapot and cups set out before her while the teakettle steamed gently on its trivet.

She got to her feet immediately. "Mr Gold," she said carefully, cautiously, and then, as Miss Blanchard followed him into the room: "Mary Margaret? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, everything's fine," Miss Blanchard said, practically vibrating with nervous tension. "I just noticed this on the floor of my car when I was driving back down the street. It must have fallen out of your – that is, my – backpack." She fished in her handbag and pulled out a small, black beaded purse. An evening purse. One that Gold had first seen just last night.

"Oh, thanks! I probably wouldn't have noticed it wasn't there until I got home," said Miss French taking the purse from her. "I knew which backpack you meant," she added with a small, reassuring grin.

"Yes! Right! Of course," Miss Blanchard agreed hurriedly, with an uneasy sidelong glance at Gold. "So, I'll let you get on with your work, then. I don't want to interrupt."

"Thank you. You're a good friend, Mary Margaret," Miss French said, taking her hand and squeezing it. "I'll be round to return your things tomorrow."

"There's no rush. But really, I should be going," Miss Blanchard said.

Gold said nothing, but pulled the curtain to one side. Miss Blanchard took the hint, and hurried back the way she had come, still bidding Miss French goodbye over her shoulder as the curtain fell back into place. Gold waited until he heard the tinkle of the bell at the front door before he said anything.

It was ridiculous. He was painfully aware of just _how_ ridiculous it was, how pathetic, and yet Gold couldn't stop the dizzying feeling of relief that had taken hold of him the moment that Miss Blanchard had produced that little black purse. He felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It shouldn't matter, it didn't matter – except that it did. It wouldn't change anything, except that somehow everything was different. It was as if the summer sun had come out after a bleak and stormy winter's night.

It was ridiculous.

He wasn't going to ask her. He _wasn't_. Technically, what Miss French did outside of the hours she worked for him was none of his business. In reality, Gold made everything that happened in this town his business. He wouldn't be so crude as to ask her directly. He _wouldn't_. For one thing, she very well might _tell_ him that her private life was none of his business. However, there was no piece of information, no matter how seemingly small or how carefully hidden, that could not be his for a price. He probably would have called one of his agents before the end of the day, had Miss Blanchard not turned up.

But Miss Blanchard had turned up.

Miss French must have spent the night at Miss Blanchard's apartment, mustn't she, if she still had the jacket and the purse from last evening with her? And Miss Blanchard had driven Miss French here in her car this morning. Plus, she'd clearly lent the green backpack to Miss French. And surely that was Miss Blanchard's skirt and blouse that Miss French was wearing? They were certainly dowdy enough and, now that Gold looked at them more closely, they didn't look as if they fitted Miss French too well. They were probably at least a size too large.

"Do you like oolong?"

Gold started, his eyes flying to Miss French's face. She held the lid of the teapot in one hand, but she was watching him – rather quizzically, at that.

"I'm sorry?" he said, clearing his throat.

"I asked if you like oolong tea, Mr Gold." Miss French leaned back against the edge of the desk. It put Gold in mind of the way she'd stood there as they'd hammered out their deal yesterday.

He cleared his throat again. "Ah, yes, I do, Miss French. If it's the right oolong, of course."

"Of course," Miss French agreed. "What do you think of this one?" she asked, holding up a small packet. Gold recognised the logo on the front. It wasn't one of the top suppliers, but at least the packet was opaque and properly sealed, protecting the tea inside from light and air. It was also the best to be had in Storybrooke without resorting to a special order.

" _Wuyi Shui Xian_ ," he read. "A Chinese oolong from the Wuyi region. Not of the first quality, but not terrible, and tending towards the darker end of the oolong spectrum, if I remember correctly." And of course he did remember correctly. Gold never forgot a detail about anything.

"The name means 'water fairy'," Miss French said, and stepped closer to hand him the packet of tea.

Gold shuddered. For a split second, it felt as if someone was holding a knife between his shoulder blades, close enough to prick the skin. He shook his head and the sensation left him as suddenly as it had arrived.

"Yes, yes. Water… yes, _that_ ," he said, turning the packet of tea over in his hands and doing his best to be engrossed in the fine print on the back.

"I bought it this morning, right after Mary Margaret and I had breakfast. Her apartment's not far from the store," Miss French said.

Gold looked up quickly. Miss French was looking right at him, her eyes so very blue and sincere that Gold almost believed that she wasn't playing him.

"There was a band at the Rabbit Hole last night. Well, a sort of a band, and I wanted to hear them play. Mary Margaret went with me, and then I ended up spending the night at her place afterwards."

"There's no need to explain your movements to me, dear. I don't own you," he said gruffly, setting the tea down on the work desk.

"No, you don't," she said, her voice breaking on what might have been a little laugh.

"I imagine that the water will have cooled sufficiently by now. You're here to make the tea, so…" He gestured at the tea things.

"Of course," Miss French said. She took a deep breath and at once set about getting the tea ready.

Gold took the seat behind the desk – the only seat – and settled down to wait. There was no need for him to watch her. He trusted her to make tea properly, if nothing else. It was certainly one thing more that he trusted of her than he trusted of anyone else in town. But he did watch. He watched as Miss French opened the packet of tea and put three carefully measured spoonfuls into the pot. He watched as she added a little water. He watched as she swilled the water around gently in the pot to rinse the leaves, and then went out to pour the water down the sink. (She gave him a tiny, mischievous smile when she came back with the teapot and he couldn't have stopped his own small smile of approval in return if he'd tried.) (He didn't try. He should have expected that she'd know to rinse oolong leaves before brewing them.) He watched as she filled the teapot with water and leaned back against the desk again, keeping a close eye on her wristwatch for exactly two minutes while the tea steeped. And he watched as she poured the tea into the two waiting cups and handed him the one he always drank from.

He watched over the rim of his teacup as she sipped from the cup with the pink roses.

"What do you think?" Miss French asked as he set his cup back down in its saucer.

"I think it's as good as a mid-range Wuyi oolong has any right to be," he said.

Miss French smiled, a proper smile, like the one he'd chased from her lips earlier. It felt a little like redemption.

"But I prefer the greener oolongs from Taiwan," he added, as blightingly as he could – which was quite blightingly indeed. It wasn't as if he wanted or needed redemption. He was a hard man, and Miss French would do well to remember that.

"Of course," she said, and took another sip from her cup, apparently quite unperturbed by his sharpness.

Gold took another sip of his tea. He would bring his best Taiwan oolong to the shop with him on Monday. Miss French should learn what a truly good oolong tasted like. She had no idea what she was missing. No idea at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Telanu for reading this chapter over.


	6. Chapter 6

Miss French did not stay long at the pawnshop after they'd finished the (really not too bad at all) Wuyi oolong – though she did agree to try the second steeping with Gold before she went. The second steeping was better than the first: this no more came as a surprise to Miss French than it did to Gold. He wasn't known for sharing anything in any circumstances, but he found it… pleasant to share a pot of tea – two pots of tea – with someone who not only truly enjoyed drinking it but also knew what a steeping was. There would be no inane questions about whether it was something to do with a church roof from Miss French, that much was certain.

He was about to suggest trying a third steeping – purely out of curiosity about how well this tea stood up to multiple infusions – when Miss French wriggled forward to the very edge of the desk, where she was sitting, and stood up. "I'll start on the cleaning up so I can leave you to get on with your work in peace," she said, picking up the teapot.

There really wasn't much that Gold could say in the face of that. It couldn't be comfortable for her to sit on the hard wooden table for long, so he shouldn't be surprised that she wanted to get up. Besides, protest would make him look undignified, and perhaps even the tiniest bit desperate for company, so he merely nodded and made no demur as she gathered up the tea things and disappeared out to the sink.

He would need to get another chair in here.

Gold _should_ get back to work. In that, at least, Miss French was correct. The small, portable stovetop and the kettle on its trivet were still taking up valuable workspace on his desk, though. He should put them away – but first he had to decide _where_ to put them. The practical decision would be to find some new, more easily accessible storage place for them, and Gold was nothing if not practical. Or, at least, pragmatic.

He hadn't moved by the time Miss French returned, the teapot, two cups and saucers and the teaspoon measure all carefully held in her arms. Gold should get her a tea tray as well as her own chair. He was almost certain that he had one stashed away somewhere.

"I need to put these away," Miss French said.

Gold blinked, wondering why she had descended to the depths of stating the bleeding obvious so prevalent amongst the other denizens of Storybrooke, but then Miss French nodded over at the china cabinet behind him and he realised that she required him to get out of her way. He didn't need to, of course. Now was the perfect time to tell her to look through the other cabinets and find a new space for the tea things.

He got up, and stood to one side as Miss French crouched down in front of the cupboard doors to pull them open.

He didn't mean to look. He certainly didn't _intend_ to look, and yet the human eye was invariably caught by any activity going on nearby. Miss French was providing the only source of activity, and Gold was only human, but even so he didn't glance down for more than a few seconds before looking away again. The sight of Miss French crouched down and leaning forward in Miss Blanchard's too-large skirt was not quite as memorable as when he had chanced upon a similar sight yesterday, in any event.

Perhaps she would wear jeans again on Monday. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

He found his eyes straying back to Miss French as she put away the stovetop and shut the cupboard doors, but he was staring down intently at the box of chess pieces by the time she got to her feet and picked up the kettle. He resumed his seat at the desk as she went out the back to pour the remaining water down the sink.

He was in the act of spreading paper over the desktop when she returned to the room and retrieved her jacket and backpack from the slightly lopsided coat rack in the corner. It was only when she came to stand right in front of the desk that he finally looked up.

"I'll, uh, I'll be going, then," she said.

"So I apprehend," he replied, steepling his fingers on the desk in front of him and giving her what he hoped was an enigmatic look – or at least a slightly mysterious one. "Good day, Miss French."

"Goodbye, Mr Gold." Miss French hoisted the green backpack over one shoulder. "Until next time," she added, and there was that mischievous smile of hers again just as she turned away. That smile always somehow managed to suggest that she knew more than he did, though it was hard to imagine anything that a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, really, could know that Gold didn't. Certainly nothing _worth_ knowing.

He watched her walk away from him and out past the curtain. A moment later the bell tinkled as she opened and shut the front door, and she was gone.

The rest of the day stretched out before him. Gold sighed, and then wondered at himself. The prospect of a long day at the shop had never been a cause for sighing before. He got up from the desk and took down a couple of small pots of paint from a high shelf. Once he was seated again, he slid the top off the wooden box and took out a chess piece – a black bishop. Then he opened one of the pots of paint – the black one – took a fine-bristled paintbrush from the glass jar that always sat on the desk, and dipped it in the paint.

He worked his way through the pieces, touching up paintwork wherever it was needed and then leaving each piece to dry on the desk.

He didn't think of Miss Swan as he worked on the chess pieces this time.

By the time he'd placed the last piece on the paper beside the others, midday had been and gone. Lunch was definitely called for. It was a relief to get up and leave the work room, to leave the shop completely. Gold wasn't about to deny such an obvious truth, at least to himself, but he refused to think about just why he should feel that way today in particular – or, at least, he refused to dwell on it.

The diner was busy, or what passed for busy in this town at lunchtime on a saturday. The place went quiet as Gold entered, which was as it should be, though he thought it could quickly become tedious if he were to make a habit of frequenting this establishment. Mrs Lucas's unamused stare was also likely to quickly become even more tiresome than it already was.

He sat down at the same table he'd eaten at last night, gave his order – the waitress was hovering at his elbow even before he took his seat – and waited. He let his eyes wander without bothering to hide what he was doing: anyone who chose to look his way deserved to find themselves on the receiving end of his best imperious stare. His gaze had settled on the chair opposite him by the time his coffee arrived and he'd just taken his first sip when the door opened. Gold put down his cup so hurriedly that it clattered against the saucer and hot coffee sloshed over the side and spattered the back of his hand. He ignored it, his eyes on the door.

Emma Swan stepped inside with Henry Mills close behind her.

Gold's fingers gripped the cup handle, hard, and he drew in a sharp breath between clenched teeth. He was appalled at the bitter disappointment that curled tight in his chest at the sight of Miss Swan. He reminded himself that he wanted to see her, that that had been the whole point of coming in here last night, when she hadn't turned up. 

Today was not last night. That was becoming all too clear.

He kept his eyes on her, though he was more circumspect in making his observations than before, pretending to stare into space over the rim of his coffee cup until she passed him. Once Miss Swan was seated at a booth somewhere close behind him – the boy's excited chatter gave away their location – Gold turned his attention back to his coffee. He set the cup down in its saucer and took out his fine linen handkerchief to wipe the droplets of coffee off his hand. It was a shame to soil it, but he had no desire to use the paper napkins provided by the establishment on his skin, or, indeed, for anything at all.

Once that was done, he took another sip of coffee, and found that he was staring at the empty chair opposite once again.

He didn't wait for his sandwich to arrive. He left a twenty on the table – that much, at least, was a repeat of last night – and headed for the door.

On his way out he very nearly walked right into the mayor, who was on her way in.

"Gold," she said, her lips settling into a straight red line.

"If you wouldn't mind getting out of my way, dear," he said, gesturing for her to step to one side.

"You get out of my way," she snapped in reply, and stood her ground.

Gold regarded Regina from beneath raised brows. "You're tetchy today. Did you not sleep well last night? Things on your mind, perhaps?"

"Not in the least."

"Really? I would have thought that after the events of yesterday you'd be at least a little concerned about the future of your-"

"My son is my business and no one else's!"

"- apple tree," Gold finished.

Regina glowered at him. "I'm so sorry to have delayed you on your way back to your little shop," she ground out, sounding anything but apologetic.

"On the contrary. Running into you here and now has brightened my day considerably," Gold said.

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Just what I said," Gold replied with a thin smile. "Now, if you'd please get out of my way? I have business to attend to."

The mayor stepped to one side, as he knew she would. Relentless politeness always worked better on her than anything as crude as direct threats.

There was just the hint of a swagger in his step as he walked back along the street, in full view of anyone who might happen to look out the window of the diner. Not that the mayor would be looking, oh no. The moment she set eyes on her boy, sitting there talking and laughing with Miss Swan, the mayor wasn't going to waste any of her attention on Gold – except maybe to curse him.

Gold was still smirking as he let himself back into his shop.

He didn't turn the sign on the door to "open" immediately. Instead, he took out his phone and keyed in a number. He drummed his fingers on the handle of his cane as he waited for the person at the other end to pick up.

" _Hello._ "

"You know who this is," he said by way of greeting. "Keep a close eye on the queen this afternoon."

" _Who?_ "

Gold frowned, and waved a hand impatiently. "The mayor, as I said. There's only one in this town, you know that – at least I trust so."

There was a grunt at the other end of the line. " _I'm on my way. I'll call at the usual time if there's anything to report._ "

"I feel sure there will be," Gold said, and ended the conversation as abruptly as he'd started it. He pocketed his phone, and prepared to face the afternoon rush, such as it was.

~*~

Gold's brief encounter with Regina proved to be a high point of the working day. The afternoon did not so much pass as drag, which was odd because there were certainly no fewer customers than was usual for a Saturday. His single customer for the afternoon arrived shortly before four o'clock. It was Dr Whale.

"Mr Gold." Dr Whale sounded slightly surprised at seeing Gold standing behind the counter, right where he always was at this time on a Saturday afternoon.

"You were expecting someone else?" Gold asked, eyebrows rising in polite inquiry.

"No, I- That is, didn't I see a new employee in here yesterday?"

"Yes." Gold did not elaborate, but merely folded his hands on the counter before him. "Is there anything I can do for you, Dr Whale?"

Whale frowned.

"Something you wish to purchase, perhaps?" Gold prompted.

"Uh… a clock. I'd like to see a clock," Whale said quickly, as though Gold couldn't possibly notice the way his eyes darted around wildly for a second before settling on the array of clocks not far from where Gold was standing.

"What sort of clock did you have in mind?" Gold asked as he took up his cane and made his way over to the clock display.

"Oh, something about so big," Whale made a vague gesture, "and with two, you know… actually, that one looks good." He pointed at the carriage clock sitting right at the front.

Gold picked it up and handed it to Whale. "As you can see, the case is brass, with a bevelled glass side panel showing the interior workings."

"Very interesting," Whale said, without looking at the clock. "So, your new employee, that would be Bella French, wouldn't it?"

"Miss French is working for me for the moment, yes," Gold said.

"And she's…?"

"Not here," Gold said.

"I see," said Whale.

Gold waited, but Whale did not press him for details of where Miss French might be found. Instead, Whale handed the clock back to him.

"I don't think a clock is quite what I'm looking for after all," he said.

"Your choice," Gold said, not quite shrugging.

"Thanks anyway," Whale said.

Gold watched as Whale turned and left, and then he returned the carriage clock to its place alongside the others. He kept his eyes on the minute hand as it closed in on the 12. Right on schedule, the surrounding clocks struck the hour. As the final chimes faded away, Gold's phone rang, also right on schedule.

The corners of Gold's lips curled up in the cool semblance of a smile. He would be most surprised if the report on Regina that he was about to receive did not mention that she had spoken to Whale today – this afternoon, to be more precise.

Gold answered the phone. As he listened, his smile grew broader, though no less cold.

~*~

Gold shut up shop somewhat earlier than usual. He felt… restless, somehow, and that restlessness did not coexist easily with standing about in his shop, writing endlessly in a ledger while waiting for non-existent customers to arrive.

He didn't spare a glance for the diner as he drove past it on his way home. Tonight, he intended to eat a proper meal.

It was a relief to close his front door behind him. Or it should have been. The house was quiet. So quiet. He frowned, impatient with himself. The house was _always_ quiet. That was how he liked it: quiet and calm, everything under his control. Much like the town itself, really, apart from the occasional necessary disruptions to other people's quiet and calm.

He went upstairs and took off his suit jacket and waistcoat, exchanging them for his smoking jacket. It was an ash grey velvet - an appropriate colour for a smoking jacket - with a wide roll collar and matching cuffs in deep burgundy silk. He stroked it as he took it from its hanger, the velvet soft under his fingers. The silk lining slid luxuriously over the back of his shirt as he put on the jacket. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself revel in the simple pleasure of touch before fastening the frogging at the front.

The house was still deathly quiet when he went back downstairs. He half-wished for even the sound of a television to break the silence, but of course he didn't own a set. He didn't even own a radio, though he rather thought there might be a vintage two-in-one stashed somewhere in the attic.

But why should he feel the need to fill his house with the discordant music and inane chatter that typically polluted the airwaves? He'd never felt the lack before; he didn't even feel the lack now. He was acutely aware of the lack of _something_ , though, and the silence served only to emphasise its absence.

Gold shook his head, trying to banish the feeling, and made his way through to the kitchen. He took down the long, navy-and-white striped chef's apron from its hook on the back of the kitchen door, put it on, and opened the refrigerator. He stared at the contents in dismay. Surely he'd had more food in here? The last delivery of groceries had been… He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. He always kept the refrigerator well-stocked with basic food items, so the fact that he was currently staring at one bare shelf after another could only mean that the cleaning girl had been cleaning out the interior of the refrigerator rather more thoroughly and enthusiastically than she did anything else.

Gold huffed in irritation. He was going to have to fire her, possibly as much as a whole week sooner than he would otherwise have done it. It was an inconvenience, and hardly worth the trouble, save that she could not be allowed to believe that she'd got away with stealing from him.

No one stole from Gold. No one. And those who tried soon discovered that the price of doing so was not something they wished to pay. Not that they had much say in it once things reached that point.

Gold closed the refrigerator door and opened the freezer. Its shelves were almost as empty as the ones in the refrigerator. He pulled out a plastic container: an Indian curry. At least it wasn't bland. He could cook some rice to go with it, though it would be better with condiments – and of course there was no yoghurt or cucumber in the refrigerator with which to make raita, or even any lime pickle.

He could make a trip to the store, of course, and pick up everything he – his kitchen – was currently lacking. The idea did not appeal. He didn't want to be put to the trouble of changing out of his smoking jacket, for one thing. He also didn't wish for the busybodies of Storybrooke to watch and wonder why Mr Gold would be shopping for groceries on a Saturday evening. They'd inevitably conclude that he was cooking for _someone_ rather than just for himself. And then they would chatter amongst themselves – of course they would – at the very idea, and no doubt speculate on the identity of his unknown dining companion. It really would be so very out of the ordinary for him, and there wouldn't be many candidates. Gold had no female friends, and few female associates. Inevitably, their attention would focus on…

It didn't matter who their attention might focus on, because Gold refused to open himself and his affairs up to unfounded idle gossip. It was so very tedious to have to go to the effort of quashing it afterwards, like swatting an annoying house fly with a sledgehammer. It was a waste of a good sledgehammer that could be better employed elsewhere.

In the end, he took off the apron, but not the smoking jacket, and called the only Indian restaurant in town, the Flying Carpet. They didn't do home delivery, as a rule, but of course they made an exception for Mr Gold.

Gold waited in his study for dinner to arrive. He sat at his desk at first, intending to go through some paperwork, but eventually he was forced to admit that the words on the page no more held his attention than had the figures in his ledger at the shop earlier in the day. He removed himself to the Chesterfield in the corner, and poured himself a Scotch. The first sip of his favoured single malt was just as smooth going down as it always was. Gold took another sip and looked around the room. Everything was quiet and still. Not lonely. No, never lonely. Just… quiet. And still.

Gold closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the chair. Miss French smiled at him. Of course she was here, behind closed eyelids, the moment he stopped actively trying not to think of her. Thinking of her now was not as arduous ( _terrible, painful, desperate_ ) as it had been when he sat in this same chair last night. Tonight there was no need to speculate ( _worry, obsess_ ) about her whereabouts.

He did wonder where she was right now, just the same. She was probably at home with her father. Gold had gained the distinct impression that the outing with Miss Blanchard last night had not been an everyday occurrence – or even an every week occurrence. It had been something quite out of the ordinary way of things. No doubt Miss French usually led a quiet life and kept mostly to herself. That was what people in Storybrooke _did_.

He could find out for sure, of course. He could call the person who took care of such matters for him and have her followed. He could do that right now, if he so chose.

Gold stayed where he was. He didn't reach for the phone; he didn't try to get up. He put down his glass of Scotch. The image of Miss French still smiled at him. He slipped his fingers under the frogging on his smoking jacket and undid it. He let his fingers drift down to the zipper of his trousers.

He shouldn't do this. It was self-indulgent, and Gold made a point of never indulging himself. Not in anything personal. In business, yes. But business was… business. Miss French was not business. Not while he sat in his chair here at home and thought of her in ways that were anything but businesslike. Not while he unzipped his trousers and slipped his hand under the waistband of his boxers. And certainly not while he took his half-hard cock in hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, and let himself imagine that it was _her_ hand on him.

His cock throbbed and stood up at attention. Gold sighed, and forced his hand to stay still. It was meant to be a tease, drawing out the moment, prolonging the inevitable.

It felt more like torture.

Gold let his hand move, just once, up and down along the hard length of his cock.

Twice.

And again.

He gasped and shuddered, his legs tensing and his toes curling inside his patent leather Oxfords. It would take hardly anything to get him there. A bit of saliva on his palm and the image of Miss French in his head - the one of her crouched down in her jeans and leaning into the tea cupboard at the shop for preference – and it would be all over. Or he could draw it out, allow his mind to wander more freely, and let the image of Miss French do things that the actual Miss French would never contemplate, let alone consent to.

His hand gripped his cock tighter and his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed hard. So close. So easy.

So out of the question.

He took his hand away and closed his fingers into a fist. It was intolerable that he should be so susceptible to a pretty face. He never had been before; he shouldn't be again.

Gold took a deep breath. And another. He lifted his hand.

The doorbell rang.

Gold opened his eyes, and closed them again for a brief, anguished moment. Then he tucked himself back in his boxers as best he could and stood up. He managed to get his trousers zipped up, though the result was awkward and uncomfortable. His smoking jacket, once done up again, hid the worst of the evidence. Walking proved to be awkward and uncomfortable as well, which did at least aid in ensuring that things were more or less calmed down by the time he opened the front door.

He blinked when he saw who had rung the bell. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, showing his teeth.

Sidney Glass stood on the other side of the door, his features tinged yellow by the coloured glass of the porch light. He held up a plastic bag full of small containers, with a couple of slightly crumpled paper bags perched on top. "I brought your order."

"Moonlighting as a delivery boy now, Mr Glass? The newspaper business is clearly not as lucrative as I've always been led to believe."

"Just helping out a friend. He owns the Flying Carpet and needed someone to drop this off to you. I happened to be going this way, so..."

 _I'm sure you were_ , Gold thought, but he said, "It's a shame you don't have a friend who owns a fish and chip shop."

It took a moment for the barb to penetrate, but Gold could tell the instant that it did. Glass's eyes narrowed, and he all but shoved the plastic bag at Gold. "That's a lot of food for one person," he observed, his gaze flickering briefly over Gold's shoulder to the dimly lit hallway behind him and beyond to the open door of the study.

"It appears to be rather more than I ordered," Gold said as he took the bag from Glass. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Glass shrugged. "As you said, I'm merely the delivery boy."

"How much do I owe you?" Gold asked briskly, in much the same tone he'd use when addressing any other delivery boy.

"It's on the house," Glass replied, managing an approximation of a polite smile.

"Indeed? Well, I trust I'll get more than what I paid for," Gold said, eyeing the containers dubiously. "And no doubt you'll go away with your money's worth as well."

"I always do," Glass assured him, his smile brightening into something smugger as he looked Gold up and down in what he no doubt believed to be an unobtrusive manner.

"I'm sure you think so," Gold said. "Good evening," he added, and shut the door in Glass's face before he could get out another word.

He made a point of switching off the porch light the instant the front door was closed. He heard Glass curse as he stumbled on the front steps.

Gold shook his head and sighed: just when he thought Regina's spies couldn't possibly make themselves more obvious, they outdid themselves. It was almost sad, really. Almost.

He stopped briefly to make a few small adjustments inside his trousers – he always preferred to dress to the left – before taking the food through to the kitchen and setting out the containers in a row along the counter. There was indeed more than he'd ordered, though he still wasn't sure that he'd received value for money.

Assuming that none of it was poisoned, of course. Or drugged.

Neither of those possibilities seemed very likely, though. It was a bit too blatant a move, even for Regina, given that her lackey had delivered the food to his door. Besides, she didn't actually want him dead, or even incapacitated. She wanted him to lose, and she wanted to relish every second of his downfall. She wanted him to _suffer_. She wouldn't want to eliminate him quickly and deprive herself of that sort of enjoyment. It was the ultimate prize of the game in which they were engaged. Of course Regina was never going to win that prize, but she was more than welcome to her delusions of superiority – it would make Gold's eventual victory all the sweeter.

She had sent Glass for some reason, though. She'd sent him to check on something, and from the look on Glass's face right before Gold had closed the door on him, he thought he'd found it. Or at least found something he thought worth reporting.

Gold considered the array of containers again. No, the additional food wasn't Regina's doing, and neither was providing it to him free of charge. Those were both simply unsubtle attempts on the part of the restaurateur to curry favour with his landlord.

He grinned briefly at his little joke, and opened one of the curries. It was the chicken jalfrezi he'd ordered. He could tell at a glance that they'd added more than the standard quantity of green chillies. He was pleased that they clearly remembered his preferences. It was so tedious to be obliged to remind people of things that they shouldn't forget.

He served some of the jalfrezi onto a plate, together with some saffron rice and lime pickle, and sat down with it at the kitchen table. He very nearly spat out the first mouthful. His eyes watered as he swallowed it down. It sat in his stomach like a lead weight – a fiery hot lead weight.

Was it possible that it actually had been poisoned?

Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, Gold dismissed it. He was showing no ill effects. Perhaps it was simply that that first mouthful hadn't been to his taste?

He tried another mouthful. He did go as far as spitting it out this time. The vestiges of the curry left in his mouth made his tongue feel as if it were on fire. He hurried to get a glass of water and gulped down all of it before refilling his glass and drinking half of that. He studied the container of jalfrezi curry still sitting innocently on the counter beside the others. It looked exactly like what was on his plate. He put a little of the sauce on a spoon, and tried it.

He nearly gagged, but even as he grabbed his glass and drank the rest of the water he knew that there wasn't anything wrong with the curry. The curry didn't taste in any way different from the way it usually tasted, except that they'd finally made it as hot as he preferred. But somehow, this time he didn't prefer it.

Gold didn't try any more of the jalfrezi. One of the other containers offered up a vindaloo that made him feel sick to his stomach, so he gave up on the curries and tried something else. The garlic naan bread that he'd ordered tasted as if it was more garlic than bread. Normally, he enjoyed garlic – but not tonight, it seemed.

It was almost as if someone had reprogrammed his taste buds, or cast some sort of petty, malevolent spell on him. Of course there must be some sort of medical explanation. If the problem continued, he might even bring himself to ask Dr Whale about it.

In the end, his meal consisted primarily of two plain naan breads, which he hadn't ordered, and a small container of cucumber raita, which he had. He threw out everything else.

He finished up with a pot of tea. His eyes fell on the Taiwan oolong when he went to get the tea things. He smiled: Miss French had no idea what was about to hit her. Watching her face as she took her first sip of Taiwan oolong would be… memorable. But that would have to wait until Monday. He left the oolong where it was and took down the jar of his favourite Darjeeling. After measuring out three spoonfuls and filling the teapot with hot, but not boiling, water, he brought it back to the table with him to steep.

This, at least, was as it should be, he thought with satisfaction as he poured the tea a couple of minutes later. And it was, he decided as he took the first sip. More or less. Less rather than more. It had tasted slightly off yesterday morning, too, now that he thought back. The Darjeeling he'd had later in the day had been better, though – the pot of Darjeeling that he'd shared with Miss French at the shop. And the last meal he'd actually enjoyed had been the sandwich she'd got for him at lunchtime yesterday, too.

Was this some sort of plot? It was tempting to believe so, but it didn't really fit the evidence. It would have been much easier for her to have somehow tainted his food and drink when she was actually present. There was another alternative, of course, but it was one that he didn't wish to contemplate. He should consider it, though, however loath he was to entertain such an idea. He was the master of hard truths, was he not? 

He'd become used to her company over meals, and particularly over tea, even after just a few days. That was the truth. It was possible that he missed her when – _whenever_ \- she was not present. That was the truth, too.

He got up and poured the remaining tea down the sink. Right now, he felt the need for something stronger.

His glass of Scotch was waiting for him where he'd left it before Sidney Glass rang the bell. Gold chose not to sit in the Chesterfield this time. He was stronger than that, at least. Instead, he took the Scotch glass with him to the desk and stared down at the pile of papers awaiting his attention.

He didn't have to close his eyes to see her face this time.

~*~

That night he dreamed of her, and knew it was a dream, though it felt like something more. He couldn't rouse himself from it; he was helpless to escape it if he'd wanted to.

He didn't want to.

She stood in front of a tall window, hair pulled back in a style he'd never seen on her before, but the smile on her face made up for that, made up for everything. She reached up and pulled the curtain away, pulled it right off the window, and the sudden bright sunlight created a halo about her. She was blinding, dazzling, untouchable as the sun. And then she was in his arms, in his lap, as he sat at a spinning wheel in a familiar room he'd never seen. The wheel went round, but there was no wool or thread. His hands were in her hair, stroking along her brow and down her cheeks, cupping her face, drawing her close for a kiss that somehow stayed just out of his reach.

Her hands on him, wrapping around his cock, had him bucking up against her, pawing at her clothing, desperate to touch her properly, to feel her soft flesh against his skin. She took his hand and drew it up under the skirt of her blue dress until he found the dripping centre of her. He lifted his hand to his lips, the smell and taste of her on his fingers enough to make him moan into her hair and arch his hips up hard against hers. His hands slid up and found her soft, perfect breasts as she moved against him, slipped onto him and rode him, and whispered every filthy secret he'd never dared voice, her breath hot against his ear. Too soon, her head fell back against the spinning wheel and she gasped his name as she clenched around him. 

He awoke, the morning sunlight bright on his face as he shuddered and moaned into the pillow. As his breathing slowed, he became aware of the sticky, spreading warmth in his pyjama pants. He was lying on his side, and the stuff was pooling unpleasantly against his skin.

Gold sat up and pulled the covers back, swinging his legs awkwardly over the side of the bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd suffered such a juvenile embarrassment. It had been years, probably decades, since he'd experienced any kind of nocturnal emission, other than the intentional ones. There hadn't even been any of those, for longer than he could remember, until he'd met Miss French.

Groaning in mortification, Gold reached for his cane and pulled himself to his feet. He limped across to the bathroom and discarded his pyjama pants on the floor. He cleaned himself up with soap and water, and returned to the bedroom in only his pyjama top. It was quite light outside, past the time when Gold always got up. He should get dressed and go downstairs to start his day.

He closed the blind and got back into bed, careful to avoid the damp patch on the bottom sheet. He never slept in. Never. But it was Sunday morning, the shop was closed, and the world had turned itself upside down when he wasn't looking. No, worse than that: the world had turned itself upside down while he _was_ looking at it. He turned over in bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. Sunday was usually the day he took care of his sundry business interests, everything that wasn't in some way related to the shop or his property investments. They could all wait. It wasn't as if anyone was going to come looking for him, asking where he was. Not even Miss French. She wasn't going to turn up at his door on Sunday morning, insisting that she make tea for him.

Gold's eyes widened and he sat up. Coming to his home to make tea for him on Sunday morning? That was _exactly_ the sort of thing that Miss French would do. Their contract only stated that she make tea for him each morning. It didn't say anything about doing so only at the shop, any more than it made a distinction between weekday mornings and weekends. Those details were only inferred from the context - the sort of legal nicety that Gold had used to his advantage on numerous occasions.

Gold sprang out of bed – well, as close to springing as was possible for a man who relied on a cane to walk. He pulled open his underwear drawer and threw the first items that came to hand onto the bed before pulling open the doors of the wardrobe and grabbing a suit.

Miss French might arrive at any moment, and he had preparations to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Telanu for looking this over for me.


End file.
